Mind Over Matter
by SonriaCat
Summary: Human beings have a considerable capacity for self-deception. It's Katrina's job not just to know things like that, but to use and apply the knowledge as necessary. Even when it means applying it to herself. Lorca/Cornwell back story.
1. Chapter 1

_Star Trek_ and _Star Trek: Discovery_ are the registered trademarks and copyrighted property of CBS Corporation and CBS Television Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for this item, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

 **Mind Over Matter  
** _Chapter One_

* * *

 _The cut on her lip had started throbbing again._

 _Katrina forced herself to take deep breaths and count each individual pulse of pain. Counting didn_ _'t make the cut hurt less, of course, but it let her focus on something other than just how much it hurt. She'd discovered this technique quite accidentally, while she was recovering from the incident on the_ Pretoria _._

 _If she_ _'d been in a safer place, she'd have closed her eyes to focus her attention even more._

 _Of course, if she_ _'d been in a safer place, she'd have gotten the cut treated and wouldn't be in pain to begin with._

 _Mind over matter, she reminded herself. Human beings have a considerable capacity for self-deception. Given the right motivation, they can convince themselves that nearly anything is true._

 _Indeed, it was her job not just to know that, but to turn it into practical application, to use and abuse it on demand in response to Starfleet_ _'s ever-changing needs. Applying the knowledge to herself should be easy: psychologist, heal thyself._

 _She realized she_ _'d lost count of the throbs. With a mental shrug, she simply started over. It wasn't like there was anything else to do. Klingons didn't believe in providing their prisoners with diversionary activities._

 _Actually, she recalled, the current trend in Intelligence_ _'s thinking was that Klingons didn't believe in providing their prisoners with anything. Any enemy soldier that wasn't killed outright was simply warehoused for a few days until they could be interrogated and then murdered for sport. Or food, if the grisly comments she'd heard about Captain Georgiou's fate were true._

 _Only time would tell if she would end up corroborating or correcting that during her debriefing, although so far, mistreatment had been minimal and the questioning hadn_ _'t been particularly intense. The worst part was the hunger. Apparently provisions were scarce, and almost none had found their way to her._

 _She_ _'d already managed to convince herself she could easily survive on what they were giving her, and that the headaches from low blood sugar weren't real. Not that anyone ever minded going on a diet, anyway, and besides, adrenaline also caused weight loss. The sharper angles of her joints weren't necessarily signs of starvation._

 _The sound of heavy footfalls in the corridor outside brought her back to her awareness, and she realized that despite her intent to the contrary, she had let her eyes fall closed while concentrating on counting throbs. It didn_ _'t matter. She'd been alone, so it hadn't been too dangerous, and by the time the door slid open, she had opened them and climbed to her feet._

" _So we begin another day, Admiral Cornwell," said Kol. "With still no sign of the_ Discovery _or anyone else from Starfleet. We_ _'ve told them we have you. We've told them we mean to learn your secrets. Why have they not detailed a rescue party?" He leaned closer and grinned, though the expression was anything but pleasant. "Where is Captain Lorca?"_

* * *

If theirs had been a love story, it would have started all the way back at the Academy. But their story wasn't like that. For one thing, Katrina hadn't gone to Starfleet Academy. She'd been thirty-two when she'd reported to Starfleet Training Command after applying for, and being granted, a direct commission.

There were certain skills Starfleet expected all its officers to have, regardless of specialty. One of them was the ability to pilot a sub-warp vessel, which meant she was assigned to flight training at STC. He was an interim instructor, working there temporarily following the decommissioning of his old ship. Officially, he would be deployed as soon as a new posting was identified. Unofficially, as she later learned, the situation was a bit more complicated.

It would prove to be an omen: nothing was ever simple when it came to Gabriel Lorca.

The newly promoted lieutenant commander apparently had little experience working with civilian-trained professionals. She lost track of the mathematics on the very first day of instruction, and stayed over with the intent to ask some clarification questions. His response was a scathing look. "I'm going off-duty now."

"Is there another time when you're available, then?"

"This isn't a university. I don't have office hours."

He was obviously baiting her, but she refused to rise to it, instead taking a sharp breath to steady herself. "Some tutorials you can recommend to me, then. I'm willing to study on my own time to keep up, Commander."

His eyes narrowed. "Why do you even need to? This isn't super high-level math. Just basic spherical trigonometry."

"I never took trigonometry," she answered.

"Well, what's this? Isn't advanced math required for med school?" He indicated the medical cross on her insignia. "Of course, I've never seen a doctor in a blue uniform before, which means you're something else, aren't you?"

"I'm a psychologist," she told him. "My doctoral thesis focused on human factors."

"Doctoral thesis?" he repeated, and his lip curled. "What would Starfleet want with a psychologist?"

"Performance improvement." She let her expression tell him exactly what she thought of his current performance. Negative reactions to psychology were so trite. "My field uses statistics, not trigonometry."

"Statistics." He snorted. "Well, I'll tell you what, _Doctor_. Statistics won't do you much good when you're out there under fire from an enemy ship and running low on fuel. If you plot the wrong course, you'll run dry and drift right into a phaser bolt."

"I know that." She had known all along that she'd pull flight instruction as part of her training. "That's why I'm asking for help to catch up. Are you going to be a resource for it, or should I go somewhere else?"

They were standing almost toe-to-toe at this point, which is why she saw the grudging respect as it dawned in his expression. He took a sharp breath, mirroring hers from earlier, and she told herself she wasn't going to notice just how blue his eyes were.

"I'm not the one you need to talk to," he said after a moment. "I can do the math, but explaining it is more difficult. Let me see if I can track down someone else who can help you out."

"You don't have to go out of your way," she told him. "Just point me in the right direction."

"Sweetheart, you're going to need to do a lot better than 'the right direction' if you want to get through pilot training. Some parts of it you just have to feel your way through. You sure you're even cut out for Starfleet?"

Despite knowing it was exactly what he wanted, she raised her chin, challenging. "Yes, unless Starfleet isn't interested in becoming a galaxy-class military force."

"Military force? I thought you civilians focused on Starfleet's exploratory charter."

"I'm not a civilian. I've already been sworn in, and I grew up in an army family anyway." If she'd had a better rein on her temper, she'd have thought twice before revealing so many personal details in this conversation. They weren't relevant to the topic at hand.

He laughed again, but this time it wasn't unkind. "An army brat, are you? I wouldn't have imagined ground pounders even knew what doctorates were."

She sniffed. Everyone in her immediate family had a graduate degree of some type.

"Although at least it explains your accent," he continued, switching from Federation Standard to English. The slight drawl she'd noticed in his speech was stronger in their native language. "I'd caught that you were North American, but I couldn't quite place what part. That's because you're from all over, isn't it?"

She nodded.

"Well, it's nice to see someone else military whose eyes aren't stuck to the ground." When he smiled, she saw the beginnings of crinkles at the corners of his eyes. "My family really is civilian. They never quite understood Starfleet either."

"I understand Starfleet," she corrected him softly in Standard. Starfleet mandated its use on duty. "It's just the math I'm having trouble with."

He nodded and switched back himself. "Fair enough. Give me a day or two. In the meantime, I'll spot you the exact answers. Just make sure you show me the right concepts in your solutions. Will that work?"

"I don't need any special favors."

The smile disappeared. "I'm not giving you any. Once you're in tutoring I _will_ expect exact answers." He paused. "And don't worry about owing me for helping you find the tutor, either. That's not a favor either. This time."

She raised her eyebrows. "This time?"

For the briefest of moments, his eyes flickered down, perusing her. It was so quick that under most circumstances she would have assumed she was imagining things, but in this one she knew better.

"Yeah," he said. "This time. Dismissed."

Nodding an acknowledgment, she turned to leave.

"Oh, and Doc? Good for you for showing some initiative. I can see why Starfleet wanted you, even if you are a head shrinker."

* * *

After that first encounter, he seemed to take a special interest in her progress, periodically stopping by her duty station as the class worked on problems. "How you doin', Doc? The math making more sense now?"

At first, Katrina responded politely, and with genuine appreciation. "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for finding and connecting me with Specialist Lipkowicz." By the fifth or sixth exchange, though, it had started to become irritating, and after the tenth she stayed after class again. "Commander, is there something in my work that makes you think I'm still having trouble?"

He raised his eyebrows, though at least he didn't try to insult her by asking what she was talking about. "Just trying to be a better instructor. Take an interest in my students and all that."

"I would buy that," she told him, "if you took an interest in any of the other students."

"What makes you think I haven't? Just because you haven't been around when it happened, doesn't mean it hasn't."

"This isn't a university," she quoted back at him. "You don't keep office hours, and besides, you don't have much use for statistics or psychology."

"I never said anything like that."

"You never needed to. Your attitude said it for you. You'd like it if I failed, wouldn't you? Maybe you're just watching and waiting to see that happen."

He responded with a bark of laughter. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm being evaluated on my pass rate. Besides, I can be a patient man. You're forgetting that the practical starts next week. I'm not going to have to watch and wait much past then, not with the kind of navigation solutions you've been coming up with."

Her pique and irritation slid into full-fledged anger and worry. "What's wrong with my navigation solutions? You haven't marked any of them down."

"Because they're correct. Technically. But they're uninspired. Half of 'em will never actually work out there in real space, except maybe under perfectly controlled conditions. Of course, that's your specialty, isn't it? Controlled conditions?"

The twinkle in his eyes told her he was just trying to bait her again, but damn if it wasn't working. "What's the alternative? Just _feeling my way_ through it? How exactly am I supposed to learn how to do anything without doing it under controlled conditions first?"

"Sometimes you just gotta throw caution to the wind," he answered. "You never know how you're going to handle the unexpected if you always insist on keeping everything completely under control."

Just how, she wondered, had this conversation segued into an argument about control? "You might be surprised."

"Really? I'll look forward to that, then."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You haven't checked the roster to find out who's supervising your practical yet, have you?"

Actually, she hadn't even known that the instructors for the practicum could be different than those for the classroom portion. His attitude told her the rest of what she needed to know, though. "Couldn't I request someone else?"

"Not without having to go to the brass and explain why. You really want to do that? I'd be interested in hearing what you'll use as an excuse."

Katrina bit her lip. He was right, of course; _instructor is an insufferable jackass_ wasn't sufficient cause to request a change in duty roster. Especially when your performance during training directly affected the rank you would be placed into following completion of the course. She decided to go on the offensive again. "I'll take my chances. I might just have a better feel for things than you think."

"Oh, really?" There was another one of those lightning-fast perusals again. Despite her anger, she felt a jolt of something that might almost have been attraction. It disgusted her. How in the world was this possibly the right time for anything like that? Or the right person?

"Yes," she told him, and her tone was perhaps a bit harsher than it needed to be. "I just might."

"Well, maybe you will, sweetheart. We'll just have to see, won't we?"

She wasn't sure if it was because of her own self-disgust or because of his continued needling, but regardless, her temper completely snapped. "Damn it, Lorca, don't you know that calling women _sweetheart_ went out of style two centuries ago? I'd appreciate it if you would knock it off."

He shrugged, eyes still twinkling, and his lips quirked although he managed to keep the smile from actually breaking through. "All right, then, Doctor Cornwell. Since you've made sure I know you have a doctorate in psychology with a focus on human factors."

"Just 'Cornwell' is fine."

Was that suppressed laughter in his tone? "If you insist."

"I do." Not waiting to be dismissed, she gathered her materials and stalked out of the classroom.

She was still vibrating with pent-up tension when she got back to her quarters, and bounced around the shared room like an old-fashioned pinball. Needing to do something calming, she changed into workout clothes and went outside to one of the exercise tracks. Despite the fact that San Francisco was having one of its typical cool, windy afternoons, she quickly found herself breathing hard and covered in sweat. Katrina forced herself to finish the circuit anyway.

To her even further disgust, the run had only assuaged her physical stress. She was still emotionally unsettled, perhaps because part of her recognized that a significant portion of her upset was her own fault. If she'd been mentally tougher, she wouldn't have allowed him to get so far under her skin in the first place.

Of course, she reflected, her irritation couldn't be all bad, given that it made her determined to prove him wrong. She grinned to herself. Yes, she could use these feelings to her advantage after all. And once she came out at the top of the class following the practical portion, they'd see exactly which one of them had the control issues.

* * *

During the first week of the classroom portion, she'd figured out that Lorca's speech got faster when he was stressed. At the moment, it was the fastest she'd ever heard it. "Get us out of this spin _now_ , Cornwell, before we hit something serious!"

"As opposed to hitting something not serious?" But even as she said it, Katrina was reaching inside herself for calm. At least he wasn't closing his hands over hers to guide her, the way he had the first few times out here. That had sent her nerves completely haywire, and those first couple of practical sessions hadn't ended particularly well.

She'd managed to push through, though, and now going through the emergency procedures was automatic. Her fingers danced over the console, reducing all thrusters to nominal. In gravity or atmosphere, drag might have been enough to stop their spin after that. But this was space, and Newton's First Law took precedence.

Closing her eyes, she determined the worst direction of spin and teased the opposite thrusters back up, just enough to counteract it. Repeating the process twice more, she brought the shuttlepod into a stationary position. They ended up upside-down and backward as oriented toward the rest of the training circuit, but they were stopped, and that was what was important.

"Okay," she said. "We're okay. What happened?"

"You did a good job," he answered. Surprised, she turned to face him. "Only forty-seven seconds to get us stopped."

"What?"

He motioned toward his console, where the display still plainly showed the override order.

"You put this thing into a spin _on purpose?_ "

"Part of the training," he countered. "Look it up for yourself if you want, but do it after we finish. There's still two-thirds of the training route left."

"Are there any other surprises you haven't told me about?"

"They wouldn't be surprises if I did, would they? Time's a-wasting, Doc, and we're still on the clock. Fly."

She did, furious, although it was notable that he'd triggered the spin while they were on a relatively empty part of the course. There'd been little, if any, chance of a serious collision. Obviously, he wasn't being reckless, which meant that the little hint he'd dropped bore remembering.

She was right: he temporarily turned off the artificial gravity as they looped around an asteroid, forcing her to wrap her legs around a stanchion to keep from floating away from her console while she finished the turn. Then, as they were starting their final docking approach, he crashed the sensors, and she had to bring the pod in using visual reckoning.

When the all-clear came through, he brought the sensors back up so she could see the final duration and statistics. Despite his sabotage, she'd finished the test route well within tolerances, and with two minutes to spare on the time.

His tone was formal. "Congratulations, Doctor Cornwell. I'll append your flight certification to your file."

It took her a moment to process that. "What? That was the final evaluation? This was just supposed to be a practice run."

"Last surprise of the day. There's never any such thing as just practice when you're flying. You know that."

Still shaking from the fading adrenaline, she found herself beginning to sputter.

"Or," he drawled, "I suppose you could look at it as being in practice every single time you get behind the controls."

They'd been warned about this on the first day of STC: it was never safe to assume anything was a consequence-free simulation. Officer candidates needed to train the way they intended to serve, and that meant they were always being evaluated, at least to some extent. She'd forgotten about that, though, since it had never come back up until now.

Katrina finished the shutdown sequence and pushed to her feet. "Well, then. I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"Disappoint me?" He followed her to the rear of the shuttle pod, putting a hand over the door latch before she could open it. "I'm proud of you. You passed the certification evaluation the first time through."

What? He'd started her flight training by needling her about the lack of math skills, hassled her through every step of the practical, and generally done everything he could to throw her out of her comfort zone. He'd even implied he expected her to fail out completely. Now he was saying he was proud of her? "What the devil are you talking about?"

"It's not that complicated," he answered. "I wanted you to pass on the first try."

"You _wanted_ me…?"

"Yeah. Someone who's willing to admit a weakness, and work extra to address it? That's the kind of person who turns into the best of pilots. And it's exactly what you did when you asked for help on the math." He paused. "I told you that was confidence and initiative, Katrina. But I didn't want you to get so cocky you overestimated yourself."

It was the first time he'd ever used her given name. She hadn't even realized he knew it.

"We get three tries to pass the final, don't we?" she asked. "Wouldn't it have taken me down a little if I'd had to try twice? I didn't need to pass on the first run."

"No," he answered, and now his voice turned husky and he stepped away from the door, into her personal space. "But re-takes have to be done with a different instructor. Which means I wouldn't have been able to do this at the end."

In the split second before his mouth covered hers, she thought he was being awfully cocky himself by assuming she would welcome the advance. But she thought about all the times she'd noticed his eyes, his hands. She thought about her buzzing nerves whenever they'd argued, and the way his smile seemed to light up the room when she did a good job.

Damn him, but he was right. This had stopped being solely about flight instruction on that very first day.

* * *

 _Author's Note: I'm aware that several sources have stated that Admiral Cornwell is a psychiatrist and not a psychologist. However, this hasn't ever been explicitly spoken on screen, and the skill set and techniques that we see are actually more in line with the latter. Many clinical psychologists really do have doctorates and are properly addressed as "Doctor."_


	2. Chapter 2

_Star Trek_ and _Star Trek: Discovery_ are the registered trademarks and copyrighted property of CBS Corporation and CBS Television Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for this item, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

 **Mind Over Matter  
** _Chapter Two_

* * *

 _Katrina focused her eyes straight ahead. "I don't know where Captain Lorca is. He has significant discretionary authority concerning the_ Discovery _'s missions and movements."_

" _But surely the limits of such an authority are not absolute."_

 _She continued looking straight ahead, not even tempted to answer that. The fact that she and Gabriel had frequently argued about this very topic wasn_ _'t any of the Klingons' business._

" _You are his commanding officer," continued Kol. "We know you have known each other, worked with each other, many times before. What might Captain Lorca be planning? What standing orders will he be subject to?"_

 _She didn_ _'t even acknowledge the question._

" _Answer me!" he roared. The backhand that accompanied the demand wasn't entirely unexpected, but she hadn't seen it coming and thus wasn't completely prepared. It sent her to her knees and the cut on her lip split open and started bleeding again. She ignored the blood that dripped down her chin._

 _Instead, she got back to her feet._ _"I don't know." It came out as a hiss. "And if I did, I wouldn't tell you."_

 _He towered over her, but she refused to flinch away._ _"Then it seems you enjoy pain in addition to hunger. I tire of this game, Admiral. If you will provide us no useful intelligence, then your only other possible use is service to the crew." He paused. "As their evening meal." It was the first time he'd used the idea as a direct threat._

" _Cornwell, Katrina. Rank, Vice Admiral. Serial number SC-205-8121-EAC."_

 _Kol scoffed._ _"Your human platitudes only illustrate your weakness."_

" _I am a Starfleet Officer. I represent the United Federation of Planets. I will support and defend their Articles of Federation to the full length and breadth of my ability, even unto death and beyond. I represent those who have gone before me in the furtherance of freedom and peace, and I serve as a symbol to those who will come after. I am committed to —"_

 _The backhand was harder this time, knocking her completely off balance. Katrina cried out involuntarily as the side of her head hit a bench. Her_ _vision grayed out for a split second, and it took her longer than she wanted to arrange her hands and feet underneath her. Even after she managed that, she had to use the bench and table to keep from toppling over as she stood._

 _Classic signs of a concussion._

" _Reconsider your position," he said, and exited._

 _She_ _'d be left alone again now, she knew, likely for the rest of the day. Most of the time, she used such opportunities to sleep, since it would both conserve her strength and pass the time. But she couldn't do that now. Nobody would be coming to check on her every couple of hours. Until she was certain the concussion wasn't dangerous, she needed to keep watch over herself._

 _She slid back to the floor and began reciting the Officers_ _' Creed again. Mind over matter, she told herself. This was survivable._

* * *

Strictly speaking, a personal relationship wasn't against the rules. She would be commissioned as at least a full lieutenant once she finished STC; higher, if she finished at or near the top of the class, and her marks from flight training had contributed toward that. Since that was now complete, they were also now no longer student and teacher.

Still, the timing could make things look bad, and both of them were only in San Francisco temporarily anyway. Discretion seemed the better option, so she was always in her quarters when her roommate woke up in the morning. Sihanouk-Rous wasn't stupid, of course, but she didn't ask any questions, so Katrina never had to make up any lies.

As a general rule, Starfleet wasn't a nine-to-five job, but HQ tended to keep more regular hours than most, which made it possible to spend at least an hour or two together nearly every day. She learned that he was three years younger than her, and had never wanted to do anything besides fly. Or, at least, that's what he claimed.

That was why she was startled, the first time she really looked around his quarters, to see half-assembled parts on the desk, along with a crate of more unidentifiable technical components underneath it. What was a pilot doing with those?

"Plasma conduits," he explained. "There's got to be a way to improve their heat tolerance without a complete rebuild. It's holding us up from sustaining anything faster than warp six-point-five for longer than twenty minutes at a time."

"Isn't that really an engineering problem?"

He shrugged. "They've had it for twenty years without making any progress. I wanted to give it some out-of-the-box thinking."

She raised her eyebrows at that, but he changed the subject by tugging her back down onto the bunk, and she let him do it. He was an attentive lover, gentle without being hesitant and equally capable of being tender or aggressive as the mood demanded. He liked to touch, and to her own surprise, she discovered she liked being touched.

Late one night, when they'd both had a few drinks, she told him about her marriage dissolving into an endless chain of arguments, physical fights and makeups; to her horror, it had taken her an entire year to realize she was in a classic abusive cycle. She hadn't wanted to be touched afterward, and she'd questioned her judgment about everything for a long time afterward. Shouldn't someone with a doctorate in psychology be able to recognize situations like that?

"So, learn from it," he told her. "You already did the right thing when you decided to get a divorce and move on to something entirely new."

"Not entirely," she reminded him. She'd been her family's proverbial black sheep at the time, having gone into academia instead of joining the military right out of undergrad. "Although I didn't decide to go into Starfleet until right around the time I finished going through counseling."

"Counseling's all well and good, but sometimes just leaving the past in the past is better. Change of scenery will do that."

She recognized denial when she heard it, but decided it was her turn to change the subject. Putting her drink down, she ran her hands through his hair and he responded by burying his face against her neck and pressing his lips against the pulse point. "Katrina."

It always undid her when he said her name like that, soft and vulnerable, with just the slightest bit of a tremble in his voice. He'd never admit it, but there was a sensitive and intelligent man underneath all the bluster and sarcasm. She felt privileged whenever she had a chance to see it.

He also had an almost boyish capacity for delight. He found her in the mess hall one evening, frowning over padds. "Come on. I want to show you something."

"I'm studying, Commander." Final evaluations were only two days away.

"You need a break, and this won't take long." He grabbed the padds and tucked them under his arm. "I promise. Just come with me for a little bit, and then I'll leave you alone and let you finish."

He guided her to a quiet corridor, one that had its lights nearly completely dark in deference to the hour, and she pretended not to notice while he used a cylindrical tool to override the locks. Then they were standing in a design lab, surrounded by schematics and blueprints.

The prize, though, was the three-dimensional model rotating in the air in the middle of the room. It depicted the largest starship she'd ever seen.

"They're calling it the _Constitution_ class," he told her. "A complete redesign, from the ground up, including all the engineering and flight controls. Supposedly they've solved the warp-six-five problem, and she's supposed to be able to do bursts all the way up to nine-point-eight." He grinned. "She'll run rings around any challenger. Plus, she'll have fourteen science labs so the crew can do an unbelievable amount of research."

"A deep space ship," she said, comprehending. "For both exploration and defense."

"With the very best of everything. Starfleet's finally gonna have a true flagship. And I'm going to captain one of them."

Katrina smiled, basking in his enthusiasm, but the question begged asking. "What makes you so sure? You had to break in here just to look at her, didn't you?"

He waved a hand. "It'll be at least a year or two before they start construction, and another couple after that before she launches. Then there's shakedown, so call it five years. I can get everything straightened out by then."

She decided not to ask exactly what getting _everything straightened out_ meant. It wasn't that Gabriel had a disdain for the rules; indeed, he was very clear about the good reasons every single one of them existed. He just sometimes had rather…creative…ways of interpreting them.

* * *

"Come in, Lieutenant Commander Cornwell," said Admiral Melendez. Katrina tried, and failed, not to grin at being addressed by her new rank. He noticed. "Feels pretty good to be on the other side of Starfleet Training, doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir," she answered. It felt even better that she'd been commissioned a full grade higher than she'd initially been guaranteed. All the studying and hard work had paid off.

"Well, you got yourself noticed by all the right people. Have a seat, please. Thank you for being willing to stay over for a couple weeks pending your first assignment. Your profile says you're a psychologist. Correct?"

"Yes, sir," she answered again.

"You don't have to strictly adhere to protocol in here, Cornwell. Tell me a bit more about your background. Are you qualified as a counselor? Your file doesn't specifically say that, but it seems like you would be."

"I am, sir," she answered. "But if you're talking about seeing patients, it wasn't the primary focus of my training. Most of my work has been research into human performance under stress. I was investigating how fatal judgment errors occur and what can be done to reduce or eliminate them."

"Hmm," he replied. "I hadn't ever really thought about applying psychology that way, but perhaps that's why we need more officers like you. It'll take Starfleet to the next level."

She smiled.

"But, back to my question. Are you qualified to conduct a counseling session?"

"I could if you needed me to."

"What about a fitness-for-duty evaluation?"

She nodded, although inwardly, her spirits sank a little. She'd really been hoping to avoid clinical practice.

"Good. We have a situation on our hands and frankly, I'm out of ideas. I could use some insight from someone who knows what goes on inside the human brain. Of course, I don't have to tell you that it'll need to be kept confidential."

"No," she agreed, not pointing out that he just had. "Is there any concern for safety or security?"

"Oh, no, it's nothing like that. This isn't so much a fitness-for-duty evaluation as a fitness-for-a-particular-duty evaluation." He smiled, as if at a joke. "On paper, this officer seems a perfect fit for the position, and he's just been promoted, so that makes things even better. But there are a number of people who've expressed reservations, even though they can't quite explain why. I'd like you to look over the reports and job description and tell me what you think."

"Of course," she replied. "When should I get started?"

"It's late," said Melendez, "and one of the perks of being in charge is that I can decide to work normal hours if I want to. Which I do. So why don't you come back in the morning and I'll have you meet with the assignments coordinator before sending you over to medical to get the test results." He paused again. "You did some damn fine work in STC, Cornwell. Some of the best I've ever seen. Starfleet's going to keep you crazy busy once you get to active duty. So consider this a bit of a reprieve before that starts."

She couldn't help chuckling as she made her way back through the corridors toward what was now her private cabin. Galabi Sihanouk-Rous had been sent out immediately following their commissions. As an infectious disease specialist and epidemiologist, her skills had been desperately needed to address the outbreak of Rigelian fever making its way through the colonies near Beta Boötis.

The cabin wasn't empty, though. Gabriel was sprawled out across what had been Sihanouk-Rous' bunk, sound asleep.

Katrina watched him for a second, not surprised in the slightest at his ability to get into the cabin when she wasn't there to authorize it. What was surprising was that he'd sought her out at all. He'd been assigned as flight instructor to a new set of officer candidates, and had ranted for an hour about it being a poor use of his skills, claiming he was being left out here to rot. When she'd pointed out that most non-engineering positions at HQ were transitional — including, likely, his — he'd muttered something uncomplimentary about head shrinkers and stomped off.

That had been two days ago. Now, she sat down next to him and touched his face, stroking her thumb along the line of his cheekbone. He stirred in response. "Hey there, sleeping beauty. What are you doing here?"

A contrite expression appeared. "Wanted to see you."

"You sure about that? I'm still a head shrinker."

"Yeah, but it's not _my_ head you're interested in." He sighed deeply, reaching up to play with the ends of her hair. "I had to get away somewhere I couldn't be found for a while."

Katrina cocked her head. "Looks like you did a pretty poor job of that. I found you."

"Okay," he amended, "somewhere the brass couldn't find me. Because there are going to be some snapped necks if I have to deal with those new students for one more second."

"Did you tell them this isn't a university? That you don't keep office hours?"

That earned her a full-fledged laugh and he sat up, tucking her hair behind her ear and ghosting a kiss across one temple. "Would it make you jealous if I had?"

Their conversations had never gone anywhere that sort of territory. After all, both of them were only in San Francisco for several weeks, a few months at most. Now wasn't the time to consider anything more than friendship. Perhaps it was a friendship with benefits, but it wasn't anything more. It couldn't be.

At least, that's what she'd thought, though there admittedly hadn't been any explicit agreement on the topic. Katrina frowned. "No. I wouldn't be jealous."

"Liar." He leaned over to kiss her then, and the subject dropped. She was happy to let it.

* * *

Fully half the file had been redacted, so Katrina spent the first two hours of the next morning simply trying to piece together enough information to create a basic profile.

The subject had primarily served as a helmsman, but had been assigned to several different ships in his career and, as such, held more type ratings than most. His evaluations showed a natural talent, he eagerly sought additional training, and every simulator and check flight score was at or near the top. He would be a perfect fit for the test pilot position in question.

At the same time, the frequent transfers were a sign of potential trouble, and there were also some indicators of defiant personality traits. The officer showed a tendency to either embellish his orders as he thought fit, or discard them entirely when he decided they didn't make sense. Whenever he was confronted about this, he responded with defensiveness, anger or both. More than one of his COs had speculated about a deep-seated sense of insecurity.

It was a reasonable conclusion, Katrina noted, and a certain amount of reckless overconfidence was practically required to be a really good pilot.

The details of his latest mission were the most heavily redacted, but the post-action interviews and evaluations hadn't been. Whatever had happened had left him suffering from post-traumatic stress. Whether it was developing into the full-blown disorder was less clear.

By lunchtime, Katrina had enough information for preliminary conclusions. The speculations about the sense of insecurity were likely correct, and if the post-traumatic stress were left untreated, it was likely severe enough to develop into a disorder. She mulled the file over as she ate, staring out a window and wondering if Gabriel had indeed resorted to snapping necks.

It occurred to her that the officer she was evaluating wasn't much different than him. But while they'd been discreet, both of them had followed regulations regarding disclosure of personal relationships. It was on file. Surely Melendez would have known better than to have her evaluate him.

By the end of the day, she had her report ready. The subject was a good fit for a test pilot position, but only so long as he remained in counseling and could be supervised closely. Given his relatively cavalier attitude toward the counseling, it might be better to give him an interim assignment until the post-traumatic stress had been better resolved.

Fortunately, it appeared he had already been placed into one as a flight instructor. Katrina's mind stuttered to a halt when she saw that.

No. It _had_ to be a coincidence. There were several different flight training classes going on at any given time, and most flight instruction positions were interim. It wasn't a good idea to pull a pilot off the line for too long.

Still, she signed off on the recommendation with a deep sigh of relief and a stress headache pounding at the base of her skull.

Melendez was impressed at the thoroughness of her work. "Come back at 1300 tomorrow," he told her. "That's when I'll actually meet with him, and I'd like you to observe. You might notice a few other things I should know about."

She chose to seat herself in an unobtrusive corner of his office, which turned out to be a good decision: the officer who reported the next afternoon _was_ Gabriel. The shock in his eyes was, no doubt, reflected in her own.

Melendez read her entire report out loud and then gave him a look. "So there you have it. What are we going to do with you, then, Lieutenant Commander Lorca?"

"I don't know, sir." He'd drawn himself up to full attention.

"I know you've been following the _Constitution_ -class project, and I'd hate to just send you back out as another ship's helmsman. You have too much potential. But flight instruction is supposed to be a short-term position, and you've already been here for close to the maximum allowable time."

"Yes, sir."

"Fortunately," continued the admiral, "there's another possibility. Have you heard of Project Chaeronea?"

"No, sir, I can't say that I have." He was looking directly ahead now, ignoring her completely. She had clasped her hands together to hide their shaking.

"It seems the R&D folks are establishing a combat tactics development unit. They need a pilot for their staff, someone who can test out ideas and provide feedback on their real-world feasibility. That pilot needs to have several different type ratings."

"Any new flight technologies, sir? Or just refining current ones?"

"Refining current ones." Melendez shut down the padd. "I'm sorry, Commander. I know you wanted that test pilot position, and you're technically ready for it. But your head's still too much of a mess. Consider this a baby step, and focus on getting that straight. I don't doubt you'll be cleared for test piloting afterward."

He shot her a vicious, scathing look after being dismissed, but Katrina barely noticed it amidst her own whirling thoughts. She'd noticed several details pointing toward his identity, but had simply dismissed them. Why? Was she so anxious to please that she'd convinced herself not to see the obvious?

"Are you all right, Cornwell?" asked Melendez.

"Yes, sir," she answered. She had to be.

"Good. Any observations?"

"Not really, sir. But I might have some after I've thought about it for a while."

"Do that, then, and report back here in the morning."

She'd never been so grateful to be dismissed, but at the same time, found herself nearly sick when she thought about Gabriel. There was no way he would ever believe she hadn't known who she was evaluating. Hell, she barely believed it herself.

It would be better, she decided, to simply figure out how to override the lock on his quarters, retrieve the few personal items she'd left there, and get out before he got back. That way there'd be no need for him to actually tell her to leave.

* * *

 _Author's Note: The idea that Lorca started out as a pilot is based both on the way he talks about flying in "Context is For Kings" and on the "tightly-clad space pilot" phrase in Jason Isaacs' Twitter bio._


	3. Chapter 3

_Star Trek_ and _Star Trek: Discovery_ are the registered trademarks and copyrighted property of CBS Corporation and CBS Television Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for this item, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

 **Mind Over Matter  
** _Chapter Three_

* * *

 _Was it only yesterday that she_ _'d focused herself by counting the throbs from a split lip? It must have been, Katrina decided, although in the half-light of the Klingon ship she could never be completely certain. Regardless of how much time had passed, though, she was still alive, which meant she'd managed to wait out the dangerous time after the concussion._

 _That injury, of course, had left her with any number of new locations she could use for counting throbs of pain. She rotated between them, constructing elaborate arithmetic problems to keep her mind occupied and ignore both the pain and the gnawing hunger that was threatening to give way to something worse._

 _It was getting harder to keep herself convinced of some things._

 _When the door rumbled open again, she forced herself to her feet and prepared to face Kol once more. But it was only one of the guards, who came in and slammed a tray down on the table in the middle of the room. "Eat."_

 _Katrina approached cautiously. The last time she'd been given food, it had been meat of an indeterminate origin. She'd only figured out what it was after she'd ingested it. It had taken an incredible effort to keep her gorge down at that point, and since then, the thought of her next meal had brought dread along with anticipation. How could she dare agree to take sustenance from the flesh of sentient beings?_

 _How could she not?_

 _Mind over matter, she reminded herself. Regardless of whether or not she ate, they were still dead. And she wasn't. Perhaps the dead, wherever they went, would take comfort from the fact that their bodies were still helping to fight their murderers._

 _Pulling off the cover, she saw that once again, she'd been brought half-cooked, stringy flesh. There were no utensils, but there hadn't been last time, either. She tore a piece off with her fingers and put it in her mouth, chewing and swallowing as fast as she could, lest she lose the ability to eat it at all._

 _When the bite hit her stomach, it cramped so violently she doubled over and vomited the food back up anyway._

" _Bah," said the guard. "More human weakness. Kol was right. Starve, then, for all I care."_

" _No," she managed, though speaking was as painful as everything else. Pushing herself back to a stand, she tore off another piece. "I will not."_

 _She would not starve. She would not give in. She was going to survive, no matter what she had to do. No matter how long it took._

 _She would also have some sharp words about just how long it was taking for the_ Discovery _to come get her out of here. It wouldn't be the easiest of missions, she knew, but the ship's stealth ability meant it was more than possible. They could make it happen._

 _And they would, sooner or later. She just had to hang on until then._

* * *

If their story had been a romance, the misunderstanding would have only lasted a little while, and it would have eventually become something they laughed about in their later years. But they'd never officially been a couple to begin with, and both of them ended up leaving HQ within the next week anyway. He reported to the Project Chaeronea offices and she was sent out to the Tantalus Colony as part of a mixed military-civilian team, setting up a new penal rehabilitation facility.

Katrina occasionally saw Gabriel's name in update briefings, but it didn't happen often because their scopes of duty were too different. She was also usually too busy to read the general updates, and tended to focus only on those that affected her directly. Besides, she doubted he was looking for her name very often either.

Probably it was a lot less often.

For the most part, she decided, she was okay with that. She never did manage to figure out how she'd missed so many obvious signs, and after a while, quit trying. It was better to just chalk it up to experience and move on.

Her next posting after Tantalus put her back in clinical practice, despite her expressed preferences otherwise. But that turned out not to be a completely bad thing, because it got her noticed by more of the right people, and she was offered a slot at Command School.

She hadn't expected to end up back on Earth barely two-and-a-half years into her career, but being away still had altered her perceptions. It was loud, and having so many people so close was almost claustrophobic. It also felt strange to be simply another human in a Starfleet uniform, instead of never forgetting she was a far-flung representative of both species and organization.

The differences could be as overwhelming as they were depersonalizing, and when she found the hole-in-the-wall pastry shop at the top of a hill overlooking the Bay, it became a kind of refuge. She didn't feel quite so small or so lost when she sat in there with a cream-cheese Danish, a mug of coffee, and her study padds.

Even better, it was far enough from HQ that few other people in Starfleet knew about it. Or so she'd thought, until the afternoon she heard an indrawn breath after the door opened and closed.

"Well. Of all the pastry shops in all the cities throughout the galaxy."

The words were spoken in English, and there was no mistaking that drawl. She was careful to look up slowly, not wanting to give away any part of the upper hand, before she responded in the same language. "You're out of place. There's no bar here."

He snorted and turned to the counter, switching back to Standard. "I'm picking up an order for Admiral Greenfield."

"Of course," answered the owner as she brought a baker's box out from under the counter. "A dozen of our special éclairs for his wife. How far along is she now?"

"Thirty-four weeks. Not much more to go." He flashed her a smile. "Better her than us, though, eh?"

She should have held her tongue and let the situation end as quickly as possible, but the words came out anyway. "So, he has you playing errand boy now?"

Gabriel flushed, but otherwise kept his expression neutral. "I volunteered. It's a good afternoon for stretching your legs, but he's up to his ears with staff evaluations. And unlike some officers, he prefers actually keeping confidential records confidential."

"If we're going to exchange insults, I can find somewhere better to be." The cozy shop had somehow become suffocating.

"Stay put. I'm on my way out and won't be back." The door slammed closed behind him.

She closed the padds down and went after him. "Commander!"

He stopped, but didn't turn around. "I don't have anything to say to you, Katrina. Yes, I'm still working with Chaeronea. No, I'm not in counseling anymore. They released me, not that it's any of your business. And to be honest, I don't really care how you're doing."

Stung, she drew herself up. "I didn't ask any of that."

"Then why did you follow me?"

It took her a second to answer. "You might not care. But I've wondered, sometimes, how you were doing."

He sighed. "I'm fine. It's actually been good for me, to slow down and be off the front line for a few years. In other words, you were right. Satisfied?"

"I didn't set out to —"

"Oh, spare me. The smell coming off these things is already raising my blood sugar enough. I need to get moving before they get cold."

This time, she let him go, and that was when she realized how badly her hands were shaking. She went back to the shop and gathered her padds, swearing when she dropped one twice before successfully shoving it back into her bag.

Why _had_ she followed him? Why in hell did she even care how or what he was doing?

No more general briefings, she decided, unless she had an actual need to read them. Otherwise, she was done with those. Done with him. She'd joined Starfleet to re-start her career, and that needed to be her focus, particularly since it looked like the career was going to be a successful one.

"Commander," said the owner. "It's all right. I kept an eye on your padds while you were gone, to make sure nobody else picked them up or read them. And I really haven't ever seen that officer in here before."

She forced herself to take several breaths, feeling her body relax and her mind steady itself. "Thanks, Jaleima. I appreciate you doing that for me."

"No problem."

But that, of course, emphasized something else: he'd been right again, damn him. The padds might only have been training materials, but some of the topics themselves were classified.

She'd need to find another place to study.

* * *

"Have a seat, Commander Cornwell," said Captain Winter, and she did so, trying not to look around. The _Jeppson_ -class ships, including _Cassiopeia_ where she was serving, were small and agile. They also didn't have some of the amenities found in larger ships, such as a private office for the captain. Instead, he used the outer area of his quarters.

Despite three years aboard, she never had quite gotten comfortable being in a space that seemed so personal.

He didn't appear to notice her ruminations. "It seems we have a problem."

"Sir?"

"Yes. The results of the latest captain's examinations just posted and you're at the top of the list. That just confirms what I've known for a while: you're more than ready for a ship of your own." He leaned forward. "The problem is that there isn't one available."

"Promotions can be delayed, sir, and a first officer can hold the rank." Just not the title.

He shook his head. "Not on a ship this small. And I'm not quite ready to move on yet."

"Carl," she said, deliberately switching to his first name. "What's going on? It sounds like you're about to throw me out."

"What's going on is that I'm throwing you out." He sighed. "There's nothing more for you here, and I'm not going to compromise your career by not requesting your promotion."

"It doesn't have to happen right away."

"If I don't do it now, there are going to be questions. And they won't be good ones."

She shrugged; it was easy enough to prove there was nothing untoward going on between them. He'd been happily married for years; she'd even spent their last extended leave with him and his husband. She'd been delighted to discover that one of their neighbors was an old classmate from graduate school, newly single and happily amenable to a short, meaningless fling.

"It's time, Katrina," he told her gently. "I don't want you to go, because nobody could ask for a better exec. Hell, this ship sometimes runs better when you're in command than when I am. I'm going to miss you. But you can't stay."

"Maybe a ship will open up while the promotion paperwork's still working its way through channels."

"I hope so. But I felt like it was only fair that I let you know I'm requesting you be transferred out, to a post where you won't be held back. This isn't a punitive action, and the request will make that very clear."

She closed her eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate the candor. And the support."

"Oh, don't go all formal on me. I can tell you're upset."

"So what?" she countered. "You just said you're not completely happy to be doing this either. But I know why you're going through with it, and I appreciate that you're willing. Why make things worse by starting an argument?"

"That's what I like about you," he told her. "It's also why you're going to be a fantastic captain. You always think about the big picture, but you don't ignore the human side of things either. Don't lose that skill. It's going to take you a long way."

"I suppose," she replied, "that you're telling me I probably need to look for another posting right away."

"I'd love to write that recommendation, and I'll pull strings if you want me to. Do you?"

"I won't turn you down. Thank you."

In the end, though, she found the posting herself. Captain Winter was elated; a stint with a technology development project would a good addition to her résumé, and she was particularly well-matched to this position. In addition, it was being run by an admiral, so her rank wouldn't be a latent problem. She'd be able to wait not just for any ship to become available, but for the right ship.

The response to her application came back almost immediately: _Transfer authorized. Report 0800 hours, Stardate 832.5. Details appended. Welcome aboard the M-1 Project, Commander Cornwell._

She smiled. This would be a nice breather in between starship assignments. Unfortunately, that was when she saw the list of other project staff.

 _Tactical/Flight Operations Specialist: Lorca, G., CDR/UESPA SFC._

She did the math. A year of Command School, two years as second officer on the _Kumari_ , a brief stint at Starbase Five, and then the three years here on _Cassie_. It'd been almost seven years. Why, then, could just seeing his name leave her stomach so unsettled?

Unfortunately, it would look just as bad for her to withdraw the application as it would have looked for Captain Winter not to submit her for promotion. Avoidant behavior smacked of cowardice, anyway, and for all she knew, he was married himself now. There'd even been enough time to start a family.

She snorted. As if. But the thought steadied her, along with the million tasks that suddenly came up as a part of the transition. By the time she actually reported to the Daystrom Institute annex on Canopus, she'd come to terms with it.

He was sprawled in a conference chair, feet propped on the table, when she came in for the first briefing wearing her brand-new pips. "Good afternoon, Captain. Figured you'd pass me on the ladder sooner or later. I guess we need some therapy to go along with our tactical planning?"

"No," she answered. "I'll be focusing on process and efficiency, particularly involving the interactions —"

"— between the automated program modules and their human operators," he finished for her. "I read that briefing too. But I'm sure you won't be able to resist doing a little bit of head shrinking on the side, will you, Doc?"

Not even five minutes together, and he was already baiting her. "Psychology training is useful in a number of different disciplines."

"I'm sure it is," he replied silkily, and she bit her lip so hard it bled. Maybe the first available ship wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.

* * *

"Are we going to have a problem, Commander?"

Admiral D'Amico apparently hadn't noticed that they'd sat on opposite sides of conference table during the first few briefings, or that every time one of them spoke up, the other one offered an argument. So far, the disagreements had been legitimate, but she wasn't fooled for a moment.

Gabriel apparently thought differently, though, because he offered her a bland look. "Problem?"

"That's the third time in a row you've shot down one of my ideas. In fact, I can't think of any that you've supported."

Something that looked suspiciously like a twinkle came into his eyes. "That's because I haven't heard anything worth supporting yet. At least not when it comes to the human-computer interface testing. None of those data-collection methods you've come up with are going to work outside of a lab."

"I suppose you have some alternative ideas?" she shot back.

He'd leaned back in his chair after she'd signaled him to stay after dismissal, but now his feet hit the floor. "Actually, yes, and I've said so. But you've refused to listen to them."

"Because they don't control for spurious factors!"

"And that's what this is all about, isn't it?" The twinkle was gone, replaced with a flash of anger, and his voice was silky again. "Control."

She folded her arms. "We can't afford to compromise this project with our personal history. If you have a problem with me —"

"I don't have a problem, but you're awful close to out of line bringing that up, Captain. Perhaps you ought to recuse yourself. Of course, you're not very good at that, are you?"

So he wanted to have it out after all? Okay then. "I was ordered to complete that evaluation and it was sound! In my professional opinion, you were too much of a maverick and carrying too much baggage for that test pilot posting!"

" _Professional?_ Hell, Doc, even I know you shouldn't be evaluating someone you know on a personal level. And that declining an order because of that wouldn't have gone down as a black mark. Why didn't you?"

"I didn't know."

He stopped cold. "What?"

"I didn't know it was you. All of the identifying information had been redacted from the file I saw. I…" she trailed off, needing to take a breath, but for once her hands were steady. "I had noticed the similarities. But it wasn't until you walked into Melendez' office that I realized just how many there'd been."

He stared at her for a long moment. "You would have declined the order if you'd known."

"Of course, damn it!"

"But you ran afterward," he said, and there was something new in his tone, something raw, that hinted at things she didn't want to think about. "You didn't stay and explain."

"Would you have believed me?"

The dropped eye contact was all the answer she needed. She gathered her padds and stood up, heading for the door. "Now that that's settled, maybe we can actually get something done in our next planning meeting."

He caught her arm as she went past him. "Katrina. Wait."

"Damn it, Gabriel —"

"You were right." She'd forgotten just how intensely blue his eyes could be. "I wasn't ready. I still had a lot of things I needed to straighten out. It took me a while, to get past my anger and figure that out. But you were right. I told you that, outside the pastry shop that day."

"You were still angry with me then," she reminded him.

"I was angry that I'd been wrong."

She tugged her arm back, and he let it go. "You weren't. I should have gone and asked Melendez if it was you, once I started to suspect something. But I thought he knew about us." And then, finally, it dawned on her. "You never actually disclosed our relationship to him, did you?"

Looking away again, he shook his head. "You kept reminding me things were temporary, and I…it pissed me off, so I just…" he trailed off. "But it's why I was wrong. It was petty, and it screwed everything up. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"So am I," she told him, and she meant it. She hadn't ever set out to hurt him. She'd just thought that there had been an understanding. Apparently, the only place that had existed had been in her own mind.

He stood up, but still didn't quite meet her eyes. "You're goin' off duty now, aren't you? Got any plans for dinner? I'd like to catch up, find out how you've been doing."

She considered the question for quite a while before she answered. "I'm free. But it was a long time ago, Gabriel."

"I know." Now, finally, he met her eyes. "I've still never forgotten."

Neither had she, and in the end, after dinner, her quarters turned out to be closer. She pushed him up against the wall once the doors closed, and he gave as good as he got, hands tangling into her hair, tugging them toward the bunk. The first time was frantic, crazed, leaving them both gasping for breath.

"Why?" she asked when she was able to talk again.

"Why what?"

"Why do you believe me now, when you wouldn't have before? What changed?"

"I told you."

"That can't have been all of it."

There was a long pause before he answered, and when he did, his voice was quiet in the darkness. They hadn't bothered with the lights, or even with the entirety of their uniforms. "Because you followed me, that day outside the shop. You followed me, even though you'd been right."

It didn't make sense on the surface, but it didn't have to. Reaching up, she traced a finger across the line of his shoulders. "No, I wasn't. Not completely."

By the end of the week, it was as if no time had ever passed at all, and they made their request for joint quarters in person. Together.


	4. Chapter 4

_Star Trek_ and _Star Trek: Discovery_ are the registered trademarks and copyrighted property of CBS Corporation and CBS Television Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for this item, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

 **Mind Over Matter  
** _Chapter Four_

* * *

 _Kol glanced at her empty tray before signaling a guard to take it away. "You have eaten what you have been given."_

" _I mean to survive," she told him._

" _You are aware of the nature of your provisions?"_

 _Katrina squared her shoulders._ _"I mean to survive," she repeated. "It's my duty."_

 _He circled around behind her, and she forced herself to stand still during the perusal. The food, despite being disgusting in any number of ways, had helped more than she had wanted it to. She was feeling steadier, and the pain from her various injuries had even receded to something resembling tolerable. She even felt a bit warmer, although she hadn_ _'t been aware of being cold in the first place._

 _A single meal shouldn_ _'t have made so much difference, she knew, but she pushed that thought to the back of her head. Mind over matter. It hadn't been just the meal, she decided. It had been the combination of food, rest and a chance to recover from her injuries._

 _His voice broke into her thoughts._ _"Do you know how long you have been here, Admiral Cornwell?"_

" _Not exactly," she admitted. "Your circadian patterns are different than ours."_

 _Still pacing, he came back around to face her._ _"Seven of your human days. I believe that's a complete cycle of some type, according to some of your calendars."_

 _She eyed him for a moment, but decided it was safe enough to answer._ _"That's correct. Seven days make a week in our standard calendar. We use a different method in Starfleet, to account for time dilation."_

" _I see. Yet it is still a significant amount of time, yes? More than enough to plan and execute a rescue mission, if one were coming?" He paused. "I would imagine you've planned and executed them in mere hours, before."_

 _It was obvious where this was leading, so she chose not to reply, instead simply watching him watch her._

" _I will give you a report of what the_ Discovery _has been doing,_ _" he said after a longer silence. "After all, it is under your authority, so you should be made aware that it seems to have withdrawn from the battle lines. In fact, our listeners have identified what sounds like an order to go on some sort of scientific mission." He barked a laugh. "In the middle of a war! Is your Starfleet really that naïve?"_

" _Wars can be won as much with innovation as with fighting," she answered. "Knowing that gives us an advantage."_

 _He laughed again._ _"Perhaps. Or perhaps Captain Lorca is more of a coward than we initially thought. Either way, you are still here, and Starfleet seems to have no plans to change that. Could it be that you simply are not as valuable to them as your rank implies?" Kol shook his head. "I warned you that my patience is not without limit, Admiral. If something does not happen soon, I will be forced to…" he trailed off and leered. "Re-evaluate your worth to us."_

* * *

Despite their different ranks, the relationship was permissible because both of them reported directly to Admiral D'Amico. That didn't mean the issue didn't exist, though, and sometimes it actually got in the way.

"There's just no substitute for human instinct!" Gabriel insisted. "Sure, maybe ninety-five percent of the time you can fly using logic and procedure. Maybe even ninety-eight. But not a hundred, and you can't predict when that two percent's going to happen. This thing," he continued, pointing at the M-1 prototype, "will never replace a sentient pilot."

Daystrom's voice was tight. "'This thing,' as you call it, Commander, is sentient. All you're arguing is a bias against artificial beings!"

"A sentient computer? We resolved that one two hundred years ago!" Earth had reached the technological singularity for artificial intelligence in the mid-2040s, an event that had contributed to the final, devastating World War. In its aftermath, clear restrictions had been imposed to maintain the differences between machines and humans.

"That was then," muttered Daystrom. "This is now. Maybe it's time we evolved."

"Evolved to what?" Gabriel's voice rose. "Something beyond humanity itself?"

"What would be so terrible about that? We already alter ourselves with technology every day. Why not take it to the next logical step?"

"Next logical step? Didn't you study anything besides circuits in that —"

"Okay," said Katrina, keeping her voice smooth despite its volume. "Gentlemen, you're starting to go around in circles. Dr. Daystrom, your point is valid, but so is yours, Commander Lorca. And the answer is in the program parameters anyway. The M-1 is designed to free up human operators, not replace them. We laid that out in the design phase."

"Which is why we need to stick to the design," snapped Gabriel.

"Re-routing the duotronics to reduce processing time is well inside the definition of process improvement." She took a breath. "Let's start here tomorrow. It's getting close to dinner time anyway."

She might have phrased it as a suggestion, but both men recognized the order and left. Katrina shook her head. Sometimes it seemed like she spent as much time mediating conflicts as she did working on her part of the project.

Taking advantage of the relative peace, she made notes in her own testing logs for another half hour before shutting down. Their quarters were two floors away, and she lingered on the trip there. No doubt he would still be in a bad mood, but perhaps he might still be willing to take another exploratory trip into Canopus' civilian spaceport and the myriad cuisine opportunities there. It'd be a good distraction, and they'd already decided to try and work their way through all of them.

Gabriel was already halfway through a bottle of whiskey, sitting in a chair in their tiny living area and staring at nothing. He'd only taken out one glass.

"Drinking alone?" she asked him.

"Back off." His voice was a low rumble.

Rolling her eyes, she got out another glass and poured two fingers for herself. "You want to talk about it?"

"No."

"For what it's worth, he was —"

"I said _I don_ _'t want to talk about it!_ " Slamming the glass down so hard that whiskey sloshed out of it, he stood. The chair fell over backward behind him. "I've dealt with enough rank for one day."

Her chin came up. "How do you even know what I'm about to say?"

"I don't need to." He made a scoffing noise. "Screw this. I'm off duty. Don't have to take any more orders from you."

"I wasn't ordering you!"

"The hell you weren't! The only thing you didn't do was say 'dismissed'!" Slapping his palm on the door controls, he stormed out into the corridor so fast she had to run to keep up. "Let me go, Kat. I'll be back in a while."

"I was going to tell you he was wrong!"

"Let me go, damn it, or I won't be responsible for what happens!"

She went cold inside. "You wouldn't."

Breathing heavily, he scrubbed his hands through his hair. "There's a limit and I'm near mine. Now Let. Me. Go."

She did, making her way to the canteen for a sandwich before returning to their cabin. Restless and agitated, she roamed through the small space, cleaning everything she could find in an effort to burn off the energy sparking through her nerves.

Gabriel teased her about her tendency to clean when upset. "What does that say about you, Doc? I'm sure there's something about control in there somewhere."

Hours later, spent, she sat back on her heels and wiped her face. The whiskey was almost gone, it was nearing midnight, and she was exhausted enough that she was losing the ability to keep fighting the thought she'd hidden from all evening.

He'd almost sounded like her ex-husband.

Katrina closed her eyes and took careful, measured breaths. "That was fifteen years ago," she said into the empty cabin. "Don't conflate the past with the present. That leads to seeing things that aren't there, and making the situation seem worse than it really is."

Actually saying the clinical advice out loud helped. Pushing to her feet, she undressed and turned the lights down to minimum before crawling into the bunk. He came back in about an hour later, smelling of sweat and alcohol, and stared in her direction for a while before heading toward the shower. She didn't move, although she suspected he'd known she was still awake.

Those suspicions were confirmed when he came out, pausing just far enough inside the room to let the door slide shut. Hesitating.

She sighed. "Just come to bed."

When he did, he buried his face in her hair. "Katrina." His voice trembled, that soft, vulnerable tone that still undid her every time. "I'm sorry. I went and worked out."

Pulling him closer, she pressed her lips against his temple. It really was all right. They were still communicating, and that was what mattered.

* * *

Nine weeks into the project, they had preliminary programming complete and installed in a specially modified runabout. Gabriel, who had finished Command School just before this posting, was in charge of the test missions. He'd begun earning a reputation as a tough but fair leader, the kind who tended to inspire an incredible amount of loyalty from those who served with him.

It had been his idea to unofficially name their runabout _Nerwin_ after finding out it officially only had a model number. Daystrom, surprisingly, had not just understood the reference; he'd laughed and agreed with it. That had proven to be a turning point, and the relationship between the two men was starting to smooth out.

Katrina had gone out on a couple of the earliest flights, but the combat maneuvers they used were intentionally erratic as a way of testing the programs. After the third time she came back queasy, she began begging off. There wasn't really any need for her to be physically present anyway, as the data collection methodology she'd designed was strictly passive.

They'd been gone for two days of a four-day trip when Admiral D'Amico called her to his office and told there was a ship available. _Pretoria_ was a mid-sized science vessel, and her background in human factors psychology was part of what had specifically prompted Starfleet to offer it to her. They wanted to begin testing longer survey missions.

"How much longer?" she asked.

"The first one will be eighteen months. After that, they'll re-evaluate. The _Constitution_ -class ships are already running five-year missions and I gather Starfleet wants to expand that to most if not all of their other operations."

"The _Constitution_ -class ships are fast enough that they can get to a shore leave location at least every few months," she replied. "Is the _Pretoria_?"

"No. Which means you'll essentially be in a living confined environment experiment," the admiral explained. "Fleet Operations knows how quickly those can go wrong, so they need a captain who can recognize and address the problems in their earliest stages. I imagine you'll have the discretion to end the mission early if necessary."

Despite knowing she needed actual command experience if she wanted her career to go any further, Katrina found herself hesitating. She'd decided to wait for the right ship, after all, and she wasn't entirely sure this was it. Few confined environment situations ended well.

D'Amico crossed his arms. "Captain Cornwell, we both know your time with the M-1 Project was meant to be a temporary assignment. You yourself have told me that you're done developing the psych testing protocols. A lower-level professional can interpret and apply their results."

She nodded in acknowledgment.

"In addition," he continued, "Starfleet never would have promoted you to command rank without the intent to get you back onto a bridge."

The unwritten message was perfectly clear: hesitation or not, she needed to take the post. "When would I ship out?"

"Six weeks, but you'd report to HQ in two. There's a four-week prep period. If you do turn this down, they'll need some time to find another captain, so I can't give you any more than three or four days to make a decision."

"I won't need that long," she told him. "In fact, I won't need any time at all. You can advise Starfleet I'll accept. But I just…" she trailed off, feeling ridiculous at having to bring this up, but knowing she needed to. "If I could have a few days. Commander Lorca should hear this from me first, sir, and not from a general announcement. They're also on radio silence at the moment."

"I'm not heartless, Captain. Of course you're going to tell Commander Lorca ahead of time, and in person. This isn't the type of thing you'd discuss over the comm even if you could." He chuckled. "Actually, Lorca's not likely to be stationed here much longer either. But you didn't hear that from me."

"No, sir."

"I'll transmit the paperwork. You just let me know when I'm clear to go public. Don't worry. I'm sure the commander will be thrilled."

She wasn't quite so optimistic. At one point, he'd developed a tendency to bristle whenever something came up that highlighted their rank difference, as well as a habit of taking any opportunity to mention that he was actually well ahead of her in terms of time-in-service. They'd had a terrible argument about it one evening, one that was bad enough that she'd bunked in temporary quarters for a couple of nights.

They hadn't talked about it after she'd come back, although he'd stopped mentioning time-in-service and she'd gone out of her way to downplay the rank differences when they came up. In other words, the topic wasn't really settled; they'd just both started ignoring it. Unfortunately, they weren't going to be able to do that any longer.

She went over possible scenarios in her head as she walked back toward the program office, and her stomach began churning again. Every single one seemed worse than the one before.

But they'd made their way through other problems before. Surely they could make their way through this one, especially if she repeated the hint that D'Amico had dropped. And there'd never been any talk of commitment, anyway. In fact, they'd never even discussed the future at all.

Still, the thought worried her, and having to wait made it even worse. It wasn't going to be a pleasant couple of days.

The door to the canteen opened as she passed it, bringing the smell of garlic into the corridor right as she was considering proposing one of their exploratory dinners for the conversation. Her already-unsettled stomach rebelled completely, and she barely made it to the head before losing its contents.

Katrina grimaced in the mirror after cleaning herself up. If this had been any indication, having the conversation over dinner wouldn't be a good idea at all.

* * *

He was characteristically blunt. "When was the last time you had your cycle, Kat?"

She laid her burning forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet in their quarters. "I haven't kept track. We've both had our injections."

Gabriel rubbed his hand over his face, leaning back against the sink. "Then let's think it through. You were just coming off it when we went out on the mission toward Arcturus —"

"Forget it," she interrupted, getting to her feet. Her knees were still wobbly. "I'll just take a test."

"Are you sure?" His hands hovered in mid-air, as if he didn't quite know what to do with them, or wasn't quite sure he was done needing them to hold her hair back from her face. This was definitely not the way she'd imagined this scene going.

"Fastest way to be sure," she told him. "It'll take longer to replicate it than for me to take it."

"Replicator records will show the request."

"Only if there's a need to pull them. Right now, there isn't."

Acquiescing to the argument, he paced outside the head while she finished the test and scan. She ran it twice to be sure, and then a third time because she hadn't wanted to believe it. Somehow, by then she had remembered the last time she'd had her cycle.

Seven weeks.

She'd told herself that the nausea, the tenderness, the occasional emotional swings were just related to the ups and downs of the project. Besides, she was just about to the age when things were going to start changing anyway. So there'd been good explanations for everything that she'd noticed.

Hadn't there? Or was that simply what she'd wanted to think? After all, she'd claimed motion sickness as her reason not to go out on _Nerwin_ — despite never having had it before — and she'd mostly stuck to water instead of whiskey after dinner for the past couple of weeks.

Gabriel took one look after she opened the head's door and then wrapped his arms around her. "Okay. It's okay."

"No," she said, angry that her voice was so uneven. "How can this be happening? We've both been careful."

"There's no such thing as foolproof. You know that, Doc. And it'll be all right. We'll figure this out."

Pushing back, she turned away. "Can we? I've been offered a ship."

He went still. "What?"

"I was planning to tell you tonight." Although this definitely wasn't the way she'd had in mind, she thought bitterly. "They want me to report for the mission briefing in ten days."

"Ten days? What about the M-1?"

"I've finished setting up the testing protocols. D'Amico's going to bring in a lower-level psychologist, since all that's left now is administering and interpreting results. The prototype is nearly finished anyway. You don't need me anymore."

"D'Amico's going to…" he trailed off. "This didn't just come up, then."

"Couple of days ago. I asked him to hold any public announcements until we talked." She sank down on the bunk and buried her face in her hands.

Kneeling in front of her, he used a finger to tilt her chin up, meeting her eyes. "All right. Maybe the project doesn't need you anymore, and you were only here until something else was available. But there's still time to ask for another ship, isn't there? So that we can at least have the chance to think _this_ through?"

"You know better than that. You don't turn down a command offer."

He searched her face for a long time before dropping his hand. "Even though you wouldn't be able to stay on the post for more than a few months."

"What are you talking about? I'll be fine, once I take care of the problem." At this stage, termination would hardly require more than a couple of injections. She wouldn't feel very good during the first few days of the mission briefing, but hell, she hadn't completely felt like herself for a while anyway. By the time _Pretoria_ went out, though, she would have had more than enough time to recover.

"Take care of the _problem?_ Is that what you think this is? Damn it, Kat, you're pregnant!"

Hearing the word actually said out loud brought on another wave of queasiness. "Which isn't something either one of us ever meant to happen!"

"So?" he asked. "Half of life is reacting to the unexpected. Are you telling me you won't even consider anything besides termination?"

"It's my choice," she answered, once again trying and failing to reach for a sense of calm.

"I know that! I just —" he broke off, standing up and turning away. "Look. Can we just take a couple of days to think before you do anything final? There might be other options. Something we can figure out."

She followed him across the living area. "Be realistic. You know better than that. Hell, we're not even married, are we?"

Even during their worst arguments, he'd never gotten physical, but now he raked his arms across the desk, sending everything on it crashing to the floor, including the ancient Navarrense bowl that had been in his family for generations. It shattered into a dozen pieces, the awful sound echoing against the walls long after it had come to rest.

Gabriel exhaled loudly into the silence that followed, still refusing to look at her. "That bowl used to sit in the reception area at my family's factory."

"It can be repaired," she answered.

"No," he said. He finally looked at her, face showing an expression she had never seen before. It was a terrible mixture of anguish, anger and betrayal, and it left her insides shaking as badly as his hands. "I don't think it can be."

Katrina took a long, steadying breath. "I'd better go to the infirmary."

"Yeah. You do that."

She knew what she would find when she got back to their cabin. The surprising part was that he had cleaned up the mess on the floor before he'd gone.

* * *

 _Author's Note: The Deep Submergence Vessel NR-1, nicknamed "Nerwin," was a prototype U.S. Navy nuclear submarine. Although never officially commissioned, it was in service for nearly forty years, and among other things was well-known for its nausea-inducing experience. For more information, check out the "American submarine NR-1" article on Wikipedia._


	5. Chapter 5

_Star Trek_ and _Star Trek: Discovery_ are the registered trademarks and copyrighted property of CBS Corporation and CBS Television Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for this item, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

 **Mind Over Matter  
** _Chapter Five_

* * *

 _Now that Kol had given her a sense of the time that had already elapsed, she was able to mark the days with more accuracy moving forward. This was her ninth day imprisoned aboard the Klingon ship. She had been fed yesterday, so she would not be today. One meal every other day might not be an entirely pleasant experience, but humans could and did manage that for relatively long periods. Some even did so deliberately._

 _Of course, the meals they did eat probably weren't as stingy and lacking in nutrients as the Klingon food._

 _Every time that thought occurred to her, Katrina forced herself to start some sort of physical activity: push-ups, stretches, crunches, jogging in place. Mind over matter, she reminded herself. She would not think of food, or pain, or anything else that could spark a negative emotional reaction. Instead, she would survive by keeping her strength up and her spirit strong._

 _And anger, she reminded herself, was just as often positive as it was negative._

 _There was absolutely no reason for the_ Discovery _not to have at least made an attempt at a rescue, yet despite her isolation within the ship, she knew full well there hadn_ _'t been much combat, if any. She hadn't been tossed around by abrupt deck movements, or heard shouts and pounding feet, or seen signs of fresh injuries among the crew._

 _Although she was careful not to let it show on the outside, because there was no doubt she was being watched, Katrina let herself seethe on the inside. Yes, Gabriel was following orders for once. But it was only because doing so served his best interests._

 _She_ _'d transmitted a message about his command fitness while en route to Cancri IV, but Terral would have known it was preliminary. She hadn't had the time to compose a full formal report, and he wouldn't have treated her communiqué like one. He might not have even given it more than a perfunctory review._

 _It had taken several days for her to figure out what, exactly, had been bothering her. Gabriel had always pushed the boundaries and could be calculating to the point of manipulative, but ever since the_ Buran _had been destroyed, he_ _'d become more single-minded, more driven. There was a cold detachment she'd never seen before, and she'd wondered if there might not even be some dissociation going on. Whatever it was, it was likely still in the early stages, so she maintained hope that it could be addressed informally._

 _Of course, he had to admit to having a problem first. She wasn_ _'t fooled by what he'd said; he'd simply been reciting what she wanted to hear. That, too, was something that had never happened before, and in the middle of one long night, Katrina finally admitted that it had scared her._

 _Fear, though, was a negative emotion. And she couldn_ _'t afford those right now._

 _So, instead, she focused on the anger that would mean her survival._

* * *

If their story had been an affair of the heart, it might not have ended there. But it wasn't, and as far as Katrina could tell, it did. She figured that was a sign she'd made the right decision, even if it had seemed hasty at the time. In addition, the frequent reminders that it had been doomed from the start weren't self-flagellation; they were a kind of internal deprogramming.

Humans could form new habits in as few as twenty-eight days if they put their minds to it.

In the end, D'Amico's hint bore fruit: six months after she left the M-1 Project, he was reassigned to the _Essex_ as first officer, and three years after that, he was promoted and offered command of the _Buran_. It was impossible for two starship captains to avoid contact completely, but space was big enough that they mostly managed to stay out of each other's way.

On the odd occasion that they did end up in the same place at the same time, there were generally a good number of other people present. Handling the situation was as easy as making sure she was seated across the room, or even just outside easy view. That way she never had to wonder if he was watching her.

She definitely wasn't watching him, after all.

If all else failed, superficial politeness would get her through. He'd brought her a glass of champagne at a reception once. "You're lookin' a little dry there, Captain Cornwell."

"Thank you, Captain Lorca," she'd responded. "But I was actually on my way out the door."

He'd drawn himself up, eyes hooding over. "Well, then. Don't let me interrupt."

Fortunately, her primary focus was on her own ship. The _Pretoria_ wasn't the newest ship in the fleet, but she was still in great shape and her crew was second to none. Starfleet had chosen its crew carefully, and as a result they never had any major problems related to the lack of shore leave or limited recreation facilities. After settling out the minor problems, Katrina commanded three missions of gradually-increasing length, and came very near to the end of a fourth one.

They were out in a shuttlecraft, finishing up the preliminary survey of a dwarf star system. Katrina was entering notes into the log for the future in-depth investigations when her pilot frowned.

"What is it, Thelin?"

"Odd. I'm getting tricobalt signatures."

"Tricobalt?" She snapped to attention. "Source them."

He shook his head. "That's it. There's nothing there."

"All stop, then. Cornwell to _Pretoria_. Styles, what station are you on this shift?"

" _Science,"_ replied her first officer.

"Get over to tactical and scan our location for the presence of Romulan cloak signatures."

" _Are you certain?"_

Katrina bit back mild irritation. She usually enjoyed debating the need for military readiness and precautions, but now wasn't the time for that. "I really hope I'm wrong. ETA for the scan results?"

" _Computer estimates six minutes. You're still some distance out from us."_

"Great. Okay, stay in contact with Thelin and let us know when it's safe to move. I'm going to —" she was interrupted by a tremendous crash, which pitched her forward over the controls. "What the hell? I said all stop!"

"We were stopped!" Thelin's voice had gone reedy with terror.

Styles' voice spilled out of the comm. _"Captain, drone ships decloaking! Dozens of them! Stand by —"_ In the background, a red alert klaxon began to sound, and he didn't bother to close the connection before turning away to order shields and battle stations.

She kept listening with half an ear. "Thelin, how's the helm?"

No reply.

Looking up from the tactical display, she saw that he'd blanched almost pure white. "Thelin?"

"This shouldn't be possible. The Aenar shut them all down!"

"Lieutenant!" Her sharp tone broke through, and he blinked. "Stay focused. We'll worry about the details later."

His antennae slowly returned to their upright position. "Of course, Captain. Sorry for the lapse. Helm answers clear."

"Shut down everything except passive sensors and life support." It was driving her out of her mind to be caught off the ship, but based on what she could hear, Styles had it under control. The best thing they could do now was to stay out of the way so they didn't get caught in any crossfire.

" _Shuttlecraft, stand by for tractor beam."_

"Damn it, Styles, take care of the drones first!" Even as she gave the order, the _Pretoria_ successfully blew one out of the sky. "Don't draw attention to us!"

Unfortunately, the order came too late. The beam initiated and caught their shuttlecraft, clearly indicating both its exact position and the fact that it was comparatively unshielded. "Thelin, EV suits! Now!"

Even as they scrambled to their feet, the first salvo blew through the forward screens. The emergency force fields held, though, and they made it all the way to the back and unlocked the suits before the next one came. It was as well-aimed as the first, bringing the force fields down like they didn't even exist.

Thelin only had time for a single scream before he was sucked out into space.

Somehow, she managed to wrap herself around a stanchion, but it wasn't possible to hang on to that and maintain a firm grip on her EV suit at the same time. She could only watch, helpless, as it followed Thelin out of the shuttlecraft.

Curling up as much as she dared, she tried to capture a pocket of air just long enough to call for emergency transport, but the wind was too fierce. Her communicator slipped out of her fingers just as quickly as the suit had, bouncing once against the edge of the blast hole and then spinning out, right as the explosive decompression died down.

She'd remembered not to try and hold her breath, but it wasn't until she sagged down off the stanchion, vision blurring, that Katrina realized she was about to die.

* * *

Academically, Katrina had known the human body could withstand an incredible amount of pain. But it wasn't until she accidentally woke up, during the transfer from _Pretoria_ 's sickbay to the advanced trauma center at Starbase Twenty, that she truly began to understand the impact of that fact.

She couldn't even find the words to describe just how intense the pain was. Nor could she find the strength to scream. If a nurse hadn't noticed the change in her breathing pattern, and administered another dose of sedative, she might just have died from the sensation alone. Or, at least, it felt that way.

Knowing what was waiting for her was a definite disincentive, and she wasn't particularly anxious to come back to full consciousness. Instead, she lingered, half-aware, for a very long period. It was better that way.

Then a warm, familiar hand wrapped around hers. "All right, Cornwell. You've lazed around long enough. Time to wake up."

She moaned softly.

"Don't give me that. Wake up. That's an order."

Her eyes slitted open despite themselves, and she started to tell him that he couldn't order her around; she was senior by time in rank. All she managed, though, was another inarticulate sound.

"That's it," said Gabriel. "Fight with me." His voice was shaking, ever so slightly. "Of course, you probably don't have enough muscle left to do that, for as long as you've been in here."

Closing her eyes, she tried to take her hand back. It didn't work.

"Uh-uh. Come on, Kat. The doctors say you're ready to be discharged to rehab, but you've got to get off the sedatives and stay awake on your own."

Rehab? What was he talking about? Her fingers twitched against his.

He sighed. "Look, if I had to give up my exec because you opened up that captain's spot on _Pretoria_ , then the least you can do is wake up and give me hell for it. Yeah," he continued as she dragged her eyes open again. "She's been repaired and sent back out. Styles got himself demoted and reassigned for that little stunt, and you're still here, so they had to replace the entire command staff. Which means I'm now stuck training a new first officer. I don't appreciate that, by the way."

She tried to form more words in response, but was no more successful than the first time. Why couldn't she answer him?

"You know what else I don't appreciate? Having to clean up after you. The _Buran_ 's been reassigned to this sector to make sure there aren't any more Romulan nests hiding out there." He looked away for a long moment, and when he looked back his eyes were unusually shiny. "Which means you'd _better_ get better back on Earth. You owe me a drink at the 602 Club."

This time, when she yanked indignantly on her hand, she was able to take it back.

"Good." He signaled to someone outside her field of vision. "I think she's all the way back now."

"Thank you, Captain Lorca," said a disembodied voice. "I can take over now, but you can stay if you'd like."

"I can't. If I don't get moving I'm going to miss our departure window. I'm cutting it close even now." Turning back to her, he leaned over long enough to drop a kiss at her hairline, and he lingered for long enough that she heard another hitch in his breathing. But he didn't say anything before he left.

"Captain Cornwell?" A figure in white sat down next to her bed. "Do you know what happened to you? Where you are?"

She did, but when she opened her mouth to say so, nothing came out. Fuming, she shut it again and tried to nod. That didn't work either.

"No, don't try to talk. I'm Dr. Mozic Dren. You're lucky to be alive. They tell me you're a psychologist, so I imagine you'll understand this. You went without oxygen for nearly six minutes before your ship beamed you back aboard."

That was well past documented human tolerances.

"I'm going to give you the professional courtesy of not sugar-coating it. Your physical injuries are healed, but there are lingering effects. You've already noticed the aphasia."

So that was what was causing it.

"It's a good sign that you're already trying to communicate non-verbally, though. Still, it's likely your inability to speak isn't the only brain damage. There'll need to be testing to figure it all out, and probably some neurosurgery. You've also been here long enough to need some physical rehabilitation as well."

He paused, watching her face, and she tried to show acknowledgment in her expression. The facial muscles weren't very cooperative, but she apparently managed something, because he continued.

"The bad news is that it also took us three days and Captain Lorca's intervention to wake you up. I'm going to have to recommend very careful supervision of sedatives and pain treatments. In fact, I'm going to go ahead and start dialing you down now. I'm sorry. This is going to hurt."

He wasn't kidding. She couldn't keep herself from whimpering, and tears ran down her face. The only thing that got her through was remembering that this was nothing near like what she'd experienced during the transfer.

"Push through this, Captain, and don't go back to sleep. We have to get you all the way off the feed before you can travel."

She was tremendously grateful that Gabriel had left, especially after she began openly sobbing.

"Okay," said Dren, and then he blinked. "Wow. Lorca said you were tough. He was right."

Katrina certainly didn't feel that way at the moment.

"You made it nearly halfway down the scale," he told her. "Most patients can only handle somewhere between ten and twenty percent the first time I start dialing them down. Hang in there. If you can keep going like you just did, you'll be back in the chair in no time."

* * *

Six months later, she was getting restless.

Fourteen weeks after getting back to Earth, after some minor surgery to her frontal lobe and a lot of hard work in rehab, she had regained enough of her function that Command put her on light duty at Starfleet Medical, teaching mental health first aid. After that, though, it seemed they'd forgotten about her, even after she was finally cleared for unrestricted duty. That had been a month ago.

The comparative ease and regular hours that came with the teaching position had a been a nice break, but they weren't what she had signed up for.

Gabriel's mention of the 602 Club gave her the idea to check it out, and she gradually developed a habit of stopping by whenever she went off-shift. It was research; listening to active captains' stories helped her keep abreast of what was going on out there. For example, she'd already pieced together quite a bit about the Klingons' chaotic political shifts.

If she bought a drink or two while there listening, it was only because it was polite to do that when you were in a bar.

Tonight she'd decided on whiskey, and was halfway through her second glass when she felt someone settle in a little too close behind her. "Well, look at you, all back to your old self. Why aren't you out on another ship yet?"

"I haven't been assigned to one." She didn't really want to talk about it. "What are you doing here?"

"We're back for a month or so," Gabriel replied. "The _Buran_ 's past due for a refit, and it's been a while since the crew got extended leave." His eyes flickered over here, appraising. "Answer my question. Was the recovery —"

"No," she said, a little too quickly.

"Then what's going on, Kat? They're ramping up ship construction, you know. There are captain's chairs going begging right now, so there's no reason you couldn't be in one."

She didn't quite manage to meet his eyes.

"And I never heard a word from you, either."

Her response was a shrug. "You were busy."

"Not too busy that I didn't wonder."

She turned on the stool so that they were face-to-face. "Then I'm sorry. If I'd known —"

"It's nothing," he interrupted. "Besides, I can see for myself that you're doing fine now. I'm just wondering why you're letting Command hang you out to dry."

"It's not like that," she protested.

"Isn't it? 'Cause you know there's been scuttlebutt. And you know what I've been hearing about you? That you've flaked. You're not on another ship because you got too spooked after running into the Romulans. You've lost your nerve."

Katrina bobbled her drink. "What are you talking about? That's not even close to true. Command just hasn't assigned me out yet."

"Have you even asked?" He peered at her face. "You haven't, have you? What is wrong with you, Doc? You always used to go after what you wanted, instead of waiting for things to just come to you." He paused. "It's a shame you aren't anymore. Maybe you are best off getting kicked upstairs."

She put her glass back down with more than the necessary force. "I don't have to listen to this."

"Then don't," he replied. "Prove me wrong. Go to Command. Ask for another ship."

"My career is my business! Since when have you given a damn about anything other than yourself, anyway?"

He started to wince, but then caught himself halfway through. "Uh-uh. This isn't about me, and you're not going to change the subject. What the hell is —" he broke off. "Damn it, don't you walk away from me!" He snagged her wrist before she got away, pulling her around with enough momentum that she staggered into his chest, before switching into English. "You're _wallowing_ , Cornwell!"

"I am not!" She replied in the same language, unable to stand the defensiveness in her tone. "And let me go!"

Gabriel caught her other wrist. "No. Not until you tell me you're going to Command and requesting another ship."

"Fine," she snapped. "I'll go."

"First thing tomorrow morning. And you'll call me and tell me how it went, once you're done."

" _Fine_ , damn you!"

"Good." Then, to her surprise, he let go of her wrists and strode toward the club's door.

She caught up with him outside, still speaking English to at least maintain some illusion of privacy. "What in the hell was that? You didn't even order a drink. Don't tell me you came all the way out to the 602 just to argue with me."

"What if I did? I told you. I'm on shore leave, which means nobody's keeping tabs on me. And that means I damn sure don't have to be accountable to someone whose _career is her own business_ and can't even be bothered to —"

Seeing red, she lunged toward him, and he caught her, yanking her arms up and out of the way even as he pulled her closer. In the end, she never was completely sure which of them made the first move. The only thing she knew was that his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding, refusing to yield to her angry movements and instead meeting her halfway. It was a competition, a fight, and she found herself nearly crawling up him in an effort to hold her own.

He broke away, breathing hard. "Public place."

"Like that matters!"

"You're still a captain even if you don't have a ship. At least _pretend_ you know there's a code of conduct, damn it!"

She lunged again, but he successfully prevented her from making full contact.

"All right, then," he said. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"My place. It's only half a klick."

"What makes you think I'd even _consider_ —"

"Oh, don't start." Shifting his grip, he tugged her along by the wrist. She resisted at first, but in the end gave in and followed, because damn him, but he'd been right again.


	6. Chapter 6

_Star Trek_ and _Star Trek: Discovery_ are the registered trademarks and copyrighted property of CBS Corporation and CBS Television Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for this item, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

 **Mind Over Matter  
** _Chapter Six_

* * *

 _On the tenth day, the guard came in with two buckets in his hands and a bag thrown over his shoulder. He set his burdens down with a grunt before pointing at her chest. "Off."_

" _Off what?"_

 _Jerking her to her feet, he grabbed her collar, yanking the jacket backward so hard the fabric gave way at the zipper and it slid partway down her arms, trapping them. She struggled, choking, and he jerked again. The second time, the zipper broke completely and the jacket fell backward onto the floor._

 _The guard pointed at her pants._ _"I said off."_

 _Not wanting them torn as well, she stripped out of her boots, pants, and t-shirt and stood there, shivering, in her support tank and underwear. Mind over matter, she reminded herself. She wasn_ _'t actually cold; in fact, the temperature in this chamber was often rather warmer than comfortable._

" _All off."_

" _No."_

 _The tank_ _'s fabric gave way even faster than the jacket's had. Glaring, Katrina finished the job, dropping her underwear on top of her other clothing._

 _He leered at her as she straightened, and she focused her eyes on the door. No matter what he did next, it wouldn_ _'t humiliate her unless she let it. And she didn't mean to let it._

 _Chuckling, he picked up one of the buckets and upended it over her head. She gasped as she was drenched in cold water, but the guard ignored it, taking something from the bag and shoving it into her hands. It proved to be a small piece of cloth._

" _Wash!" he snarled. "You stink."_

 _She started scrubbing the cloth over her arms and chest._

" _Stupid," he informed her before taking out a jar. The contents smelled terrible, but looked similar to decon gel, so she took a chance and scooped up two fingertips' worth. It was, indeed, some sort of soap, and despite the noxious odor it felt good on her skin._

 _He dumped the second bucket over her when she finished, and she was still standing there, naked and dripping, when the door slid open and Kol strode in. He stopped in front of her, perusing her in a way similar to the way he had a few days before._

" _Human bodies are repulsive," he finally said. "Scrawny. Weak. How anyone could stand to mate with one is beyond me, yet they must, because you do not die out. Cover yourself."_

 _There didn_ _'t appear to be a towel in the bag, so she used her ruined tank and underwear to dry off as best she could. At least the jacket was relatively intact beyond its ruined fastenings._

" _My body serves me perfectly well," she told him when she finished dressing. "Though you might've told your man to tell me what he wanted instead of tearing my clothing up."_

" _I might have," he replied. "I chose not to."_

 _Now their eyes met, and she understood. The bath might have been a relief, but it wasn_ _'t a reprieve. Their battle was far from over._

* * *

There was no discussion of relationships or disclosure this time. As ship captains, they were direct peers, and while her _Raikoke_ was also a fighting ship, its function as a swift cutter meant she was deployed on entirely different missions than the _Buran_. As such, they were rarely in the same place at the same time anyway; and when they were, they had their pick of ways to keep things entirely discreet.

At first, their encounters were mostly wordless, focused primarily on an unspoken attempt to make up for lost time. They generally didn't bother with lights; between that and the timing, neither of them really had the opportunity to see the other's quarters despite having been in them more than once.

But after a while, the initial flush faded away and they began taking time to actually enjoy each other instead of focusing on a mutual goal. Sometimes, in fact, they simply lay together in silence, listening to the sound of each other's breathing. She'd learned the rhythm of his heartbeat so well she sometimes heard it in her dreams.

They also never talked about what had passed between them before. There was too much baggage, too many regrets and discussions that would have to happen if they did. It was better to simply accept this new normal the way it was.

She understood, now, what he'd been doing when he'd gone to the 602 Club, and the one time she'd brought it up, he'd made a dismissive gesture. _We all need a wake-up call sometimes, Kat. I got one when I was passed over for the test pilot posting. You got one when I taunted you back onto a bridge. Don_ _'t worry about it._

They were on the _Buran_ this time, and in an effort to drag herself out of too many memories, she finally gave in to the urge to look around. His quarters weren't spacious, but they were at least divided into two rooms. Still, the bed was placed behind a grilled partition that was open enough to allow a view into the sitting area, so she could clearly see all the way to the door.

"What is it?" asked Gabriel.

"I didn't say anything."

"But you're thinking Doc. There's no mistaking the sound of those wheels when they turn in your head."

Giving up any attempt to be surreptitious, she sat up. "Just seeing what you've done with the place." Like most captains, he had a residence in his ship's home port — in the _Buran_ 's case, that was Altair VI — but that was little more than an official address. This space, aboard his ship, was where he really lived.

A shrug rippled down one arm. "Looking for hidden meanings in what I keep close?"

"Not really," she answered. "Mostly just curious. What are those over there?"

"Which? The crystals?"

"Yeah."

"Dilithium cryolite. It might be better than regular dilithium at moderating the matter-antimatter streams. Which would mean we can afford to use more energy in that reaction, which would mean —"

"— faster speeds," she concluded, nodding. "But is it stable?" Her chemistry was admittedly weak, but something had buzzed in the back of her head. Dilithium was known to react strangely with certain fluorine compounds. Wasn't cryolite derived from fluorine?

"Hasn't exploded so far," he drawled.

"That's not exactly a ringing endorsement."

"You have to take risks if you want rewards, Kat."

True enough, but was this risk worth the potential reward? Indulging her curiosity, she slid out of the bunk and crossed the room to look closer, pretending she wasn't aware of the way his eyes followed her naked form. There was some sort of organic material in a jar next to the oddly-textured crystals, and she bent over it, peering closer. The structure was familiar, despite clearly not being human. "Is this some kind of brain tissue?"

With another shrug, he pushed the covers aside and joined her, standing just as naked as she was under the starlight. "Brains are basically electrical computers."

"And the most complex belong to sentient creatures." She raised her eyebrows. "Don't tell me you're actually thinking about adding an organic component to all this."

"Maybe. But come on, Katrina. You really think I'd be involved in using something illegally harvested from sentients? This is from a cadaver donation on Andoria. A voluntary one. They let me borrow a sample."

"'Borrow'? What, are you some kind of a researcher now? I never heard anything about you going back to school." He'd graduated from the Academy, of course, but his major there had been flight operations. She hadn't heard anything about him going back for a graduate science or engineering education.

"I haven't," he admitted. "But you pick up things here and there if you pay attention. Concepts, ideas…" he trailed off, picking up a metal box. "Samples. It's just something to occupy the time." Dumping the crystals and jar inside, he closed the box and turned back toward her.

She tilted her head. "What do your engineering folks think?"

He drew her toward the middle of the room, guiding one of her hands up onto his shoulder. "I'll bring 'em in when the time's right. But that's not now. Right now, we're just dancing in the starlight." He began leading her, despite the lack of music, and she chuckled. Oddly enough, this was something they had never done. He proved to be quite good at it.

The activity was also an obvious distraction, but on further thought, she had no reason not to allow it. He was right: nobody else was here to care. She'd also have plenty of time to figure out what was going on later. That assumed there was anything at all to figure out in the first place. It was entirely possible that there wasn't.

Sometimes things were nothing more than what they were, and there wasn't always anything wrong with that.

Closing her eyes, she leaned forward and rested her head on his chest.

* * *

Katrina was in her ready room when the encrypted flash came through, piggybacked on a routine comm _and_ Calypso _ambushed by Klingon squadron, 1.2 parsecs from NGC 2042-Alpha._ The coordinates followed. _All available ships respond immediately. Maintain subspace silence._

She wasted no time getting out to the _Raikoke_ 's bridge. "Okay, folks. Emergency course change coming through. Can we get to Warp Eight, Mr. Darton?"

Her helmsman frowned at his console. "Engineering reports some fluctuations in the starboard engine, but we could handle it for a couple of hours."

"A couple of hours is all we need. Let's go."

By the time they got to the battlefield, it was nearly over. The _Calypso_ was adrift, escape pod bays empty. The _Buran_ had been heavily battered and was going to need significant repairs, but kept on fighting anyway. Two Klingon ships were closing on her while a third one had turned to engage the recently-arrived _Wolfstar_.

"Savel," she said to her ops officer, "go to silent running. Shields up. Darton, come in at z-plus 120. Let's see if we can sneak up by going over 'em."

The pilot clenched his hands so tight the knuckles went pale. "Captain, if they catch sight of us…"

"It'll be my problem. You just fly. Savel, find out if all of the _Calypso_ 's pods are accounted for. Kurigawa, tell me what we're up against."

"Three D-7 class heavy cruisers," replied the diminutive woman behind the weapons station. "All damaged, but one minimally so. That's the one that went after the _Wolfstar_. I don't know how the _Buran_ has any phasers left, since I can't even detect a power curve over there."

"I swear, Gabriel, if you've shut down life support…" she let both the sentence and the thought trail off; they weren't worth her time. "Okay. The _Wolfstar_ will be fine against a D-7. Maintain course until we're above and between the ones on the _Buran_. Do we have torpedoes?"

"Full spread. But, Captain, we're no match for even one D-7. Never mind two."

"Which is why we need the element of surprise. Darton, slow us down. We don't want to get attention with too much speed. Arm torpedoes and prime the phaser banks. We're not going to have much time once we get detected." She snapped out orders, imagining the scenario in her mind. "I need a sharpshooter down in phaser control."

"Permission to leave the bridge," said Kurigawa immediately.

"Not you. Who's the best on your squad?"

"Me. But Davenport's a close second. Sending him down now."

Despite the situation, Katrina couldn't help a small grin at her tactical officer's boast. "Have the Klingons detected us?"

"Not yet, sir. But we'll be visible to the naked eye in thirty seconds."

"Make 'em count, then. Darton, here's what I want to happen." As she outlined her plan, his face went from incredulity to amazement to determination. "We need to stay loose," she concluded. "Keep moving. Confuse them and force a crossfire."

"Buran _to_ Raikoke _. How the hell did you get in on top of us like that?_ _"_

"Nobody expected to see us, Lorca," she answered. "So they didn't. How are you doing over there?"

" _We've had better days."_ A crash sounded over the comm. _"Damage control list'll be a kilometer long. I think the left ship's seen you."_

She'd already signaled for a loop out. "Can you get out of the way?"

" _Negative. We're down to thrusters. Weps double-hot, though, except they keep staying just out of range."_

Exactly as she'd suspected. "Darton? Set course five-four mark seven-three, right toward the ship that's turning, and then out at ninety degrees on my mark. Let's give the _Buran_ something to shoot at."

" _Much obliged, Cornwell,"_ drawled Gabriel. _"Just don't be the chicken."_

"It's not chicken," she answered, half to herself. "It's psychology. Klingons don't think like this."

"Perhaps because they're not kamikazes," said Kurigawa in a tone that probably hadn't been intended to carry. Katrina shot her a look, and she shrugged it off.

"Steady, Lieutenant," she said to Darton. "Maintain course."

Sweat was pouring down his face, but he nodded. "Three hundred meters from target."

"Pull up at fifty."

"Fifty meters is —" began Savel, and Katrina redirected her glare. He took the hint.

"Two hundred," said Darton. "One-fifty. One hundred."

"Everyone grab something and hold on!"

"Fifty meters!" shouted Darton, whose legs were already wrapped around his chair. "Pulling up and across the _Buran_ 's path."

"Don't singe our tailfeathers, Gabriel. Kurigawa! Sync rear phasers with the _Buran_ 's firing solution and time fifteen seconds."

"Phasers sync'd and timed," she answered as Gabriel's ship started to fire.

"Fire!" shouted Katrina. "Hit their other side, right after they refocus their shields. Follow up with a torpedo spread. Where's the other ship?"

The crash of disruptor fire against their shields answered that question, and she was sent sprawling. "Status!"

"First ship disabled, Captain! You were right. They'd refocused their shields back toward the _Buran_. Second ship coming around."

" _That's not gonna work twice,"_ said Gabriel.

"It doesn't need to. Reinforce inertial dampers. Darton, new course, zero mark one-eighty!" She shoved herself to her feet. " _Buran_ , arm your strongest torpedo and prepare to target that vulnerable area on their main pylon!"

" _You are beyond insane!"_

"Probably," she admitted, and her heart was pounding. If she could just manage to disorient the Klingons long enough for Gabriel to pinpoint fire, this would work. And it had to. She wouldn't accept anything else. "Darton, now! Reverse course, one-eighty mark sixty! _Buran_ , fire!"

It worked. Her knees buckled when it was over, but she managed to make it look like deliberately sitting down. "Where's the third cruiser? What about the _Wolfstar_?"

" _Coming around, Captain Cornwell,"_ answered the other Starfleet vessel. _"And the Klingons are on the run. Holy God, what was that? Your pilot's out of his mind."_

"Not the pilot," she answered, and her hands began shaking as the adrenaline crashed. "The captain."

* * *

" _Tell me, Captain, whatever possessed you to use such…unorthodox tactics? Surely you did not believe they would work."_

Terral's reputation was fierce, even for a Vulcan, and knowing that kept Katrina's spine a little straighter than it usually was. "But I did, sir," she answered into the holo-pickup. "Klingons are fierce soldiers, but they rely a little too much on brute strength and traditional combat forms. They won't ordinarily risk a ship for the sole purpose of protecting only one other ship. More importantly, they won't expect their enemy to, either."

" _So you were trying to surprise them."_

"I believed erratic and incomprehensible flight patterns would distract and unsettle them enough to be lured into the _Buran_ 's and my weapons range. Since the _Raikoke_ is a swift cutter, it's especially well-suited for that sort of maneuver."

" _Good job, Captain,"_ he answered, and she twitched at the unexpected praise. _"That is an exemplary line of reasoning. You are, by training, a psychologist, yes? Is that why you thought of Klingon behavioral patterns?"_

"My work mostly focused on factors affecting decision making," she answered. "But yes, it's possible that's why I thought that way. I'll admit, sir, that at the time I was mostly focused on the task at hand."

" _Never apologize for using your specific strengths, Captain Cornwell. You have also done work with tactical simulations, in addition to placing in the top ten of your class at Command School. Is it your intention to seek a promotion beyond your current position?"_

Katrina's breath caught. No non-Academy graduates had ever been promoted beyond a captaincy. "I wouldn't be averse to the idea."

" _Good,"_ he answered. _"Because you are hereby being ordered to turn over command of_ Raikoke _to Commander Alekia Kurigawa, who, as you know, recently passed the captains_ _' exam. There's a civilian cruiser docked at your location right now. Your cabin is already reserved, and it is scheduled to leave in two days. That should allow for sufficient time to make the necessary arrangements."_

"Yes, sir." Her hands were shaking again.

" _You will report to Starfleet Headquarters in a week, for the training briefings on your next assignment. Until you've arrived and been processed, I can't be more specific, but you will be leading a mission planning team focused on a new starship design project."_ He folded his hands. _"At the rank of Rear Admiral. Congratulations, Cornwell. I look forward to meeting you in person."_

She was still stunned as she stepped off the projector disc in the base commander's office. He was smiling. "Congratulations, Captain. Or do I get to be the first to call you Admiral Cornwell?"

Hearing it spoken out loud seemed to make it real, and a smile broke across her face. "Thank you."

He chuckled. "I was shocked, too, when it happened to me. Take a break and go get a nice dinner. Give it some time to sink in before you go back to the ship and break the news to everyone else."

She nodded, excusing herself, but then stood in the corridor for a long moment before heading in a different direction than he'd suggested. Gabriel was in his temporary quarters, pacing, and she stood just inside while telling him the news.

He closed his eyes and sighed, dropping into a chair. "Congratulations, Kat. I always knew you'd end up wearing stars, sooner or later."

"You could," she told him, "try being happy for me."

"I am." The eyes opened again. "Really. It's just that I'm still stuck here on medical leave." Although he was out of the hospital, he still hadn't been cleared to return to the _Buran_ , which itself was still in drydock.

"Think of it as a break," she suggested, echoing the commander's words.

"I should be there, supervising the repairs." If he'd been at full strength, he might have pushed back to his feet and started pacing again; it was telling that he didn't. "Of course, now that you're brass, maybe you could pull some rank and get the quacks in the medical center to sign off on my release?"

"Did they tell you why they haven't?"

"Something about my blood chemistry still being out of whack. For God's sake, I passed the sobriety testing. It's just left over from breathing all that bad air when I went after those kids in auxiliary control." He indicated a padd. "See for yourself."

She scanned through it; despite not being a medical doctor, she was familiar with basic toxicology. "These numbers aren't as stable as they need to be. If you crash again it could go way too quickly. That's why they want you to stay close."

"Should've known you'd side with the stuffed shirts, now that you are one."

Putting the padd down, Katrina folded her arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means they freakin' _promoted_ you just because you pulled crazy stunts in combat! Half the time, when I do something like that, I draw a reprimand!"

"So you're jealous."

"What if I am?" he countered. "It's only natural. Don't psychoanalyze me, Doc. I have enough people already poking and prodding as it is."

She wondered why he hadn't already noticed the commendation that had appeared on his public record. "Look, I just wanted to come and say a proper goodbye. Maybe even invite you out to dinner to celebrate. But you know what? Don't worry about it. I should be packing anyway."

"Fine," he snapped. "Goodbye. Good luck."

She waited for a minute more, watching him watch her, before turning on her heel and heading for the door.

His voice caught her, that soft, vulnerable tone that sometimes came out in their most intimate moments. "Katrina." Then his arms were around her, even as he swayed from having pushed to his feet too fast, and she turned to let him bury his face in her hair.

"Congratulations," he breathed. "And I'm happy for you. Really. For once, Starfleet's getting it right. You deserve this, and I'm going to miss you. A lot."


	7. Chapter 7

_Star Trek_ and _Star Trek: Discovery_ are the registered trademarks and copyrighted property of CBS Corporation and CBS Television Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for this item, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

 **Mind Over Matter  
** _Chapter Seven_

* * *

 _At his signal, the guard took out the buckets and bag, leaving them alone. Kol turned away from her, ostensibly inspecting the puddles on the floor, for a long while._

" _Where is Captain Lorca?" he finally asked without looking at her._

" _I don't know," she answered for what felt like the thousandth time._

" _There must have been standing orders in the case of his commander's capture. What were they?"_

 _She must not have been able to rinse all of the soap off, because the skin on her arms had begun to itch under the jacket sleeves. Katrina folded them to prevent herself from scratching._

 _He turned back toward her._ _"Answer me!"_

" _No," she replied, and waited for the inevitable blow to come._

 _To her surprise, it didn_ _'t. With an inarticulate growl, he slammed his hand into the wall instead. It dented and cracked under the onslaught. "Why isn't Starfleet negotiating for your release?"_

" _Starfleet doesn't negotiate with terrorists," she snapped._

" _Terrorists?" He rounded on her. "Is that how you see us? As an illegitimate Empire?"_

 _In retrospect, that word probably hadn_ _'t been the best choice. But she wasn't to about to give him any ground. "How legitimate is any Empire that rules by fear and deception?"_

" _Deception? You stand there as a representative of the United Federation of Planets, the ultimate deceivers, and dare to offer such a criticism?" He scoffed. "You do not even comprehend your own lack of honor."_

 _There didn_ _'t seem to be any good reply to that._

" _No matter," he said after a moment. "You will still prove useful to us in the end, one way or another. The only question is how. I had thought to offer you some choice in the matter, but you aren't even properly grateful for the opportunity to bathe and have provided me with no useful intelligence."_

" _What would you think of one of your warriors, if he revealed information to the enemy?"_

 _He scoffed._ _"None of my warriors would have ever allowed themselves to be captured. As I said, you do not even comprehend your own lack of honor. Our discussions are at an end, as I have acquired some new equipment. Tell me, Admiral, have you ever heard of our mind-sifter?"_

" _No."_

" _You will learn what it is soon enough. As soon as I have a competent operator available, we will use it to extract the secrets you have been so unwilling to give up voluntarily. I would delight in seeing you broken at the realization, except that there is an unfortunate side effect." He gave her another one of those unpleasant smiles. "You won't know. The subjects of interrogation with the mind-sifter often lose the capacity for rational thought."_

" _I'll take my chances."_

" _The mind-sifter has defeated minds far stronger than those of a human."_

 _She took a long breath, swallowing her fear and remembering the mantra that had come to sustain her during this experience. Mind over matter._

 _Apparently, the metaphor was about to become quite literal._

* * *

If their tale had been about a relationship, they might not let have been willing to let their careers get in the way. But despite their foibles, both of them were capable and ambitious officers. The brass ring of accomplishment shone too brightly for either to voluntarily ignore.

Katrina threw herself headlong into the new position, discovering that in some ways, working in the admiralty was actually more exhausting than being on the front lines. There was so much information to be processed and so many things she needed to learn. She quickly found herself working days that stretched from eight hours into ten, and then ten into twelve, before she lost count.

Human productivity waned after a certain point; she was well aware of that, of course. But that, too, was a fact she could use: she simply worked on more complex tasks first thing in the mornings, when she was better rested. Besides, despite officially ignoring them, she was unofficially well aware of the rumors about her. She was being noticed, and would likely be fast-tracked into her next promotion.

That, she decided, made pushing herself worth it, and before she realized it a year and a half had slipped past.

"I am surprised," Terral commented after a morning update, "that you have not requested any personal recreation time."

"There's too much to do."

He steepled his fingertips. "Did you not tell me that you are an expert in human performance factors, Admiral Cornwell?"

"Yes."

"Then, will you tell me, based on your expertise in the field, whether or not humans are capable of functioning at peak levels for long periods of time without taking a chance to rest?"

It was an obvious trap, and she damned herself for falling into it so easily. Of course, the idea of a Vulcan asking questions about the human psyche was unexpected enough that it could be considered a surprise.

"Cornwell?"

"Sorry, sir. Yes, humans do need periodic rest breaks. But I've been taking them —"

"Only the occasional day here and there, and only when explicitly scheduled. You have not requested any extended leave." He consulted a padd. "I have received a complaint about your performance."

She tried to keep her face impassive. It was easier than it used to be.

"I'm not going to read all of it to you, lest doing so inadvertently reveal who made the complaint. However, I believe you will find this portion quite edifying. _Admiral Cornwell_ _'s dedication is laudable, but can be overwhelming to the point of unreasonable. She consistently works well past normal hours and expects the same of her staff. This has created a climate of overwork and stress, with the associated performance declines and poor atmosphere. Some officers are actually afraid to request personal time, even when clearly warranted._ " He paused. "Your reaction to this?"

Absurdly, Katrina's first thought was that whoever had written that needed a promotion. While the observation was negative, it was couched in a tone of professional concern and no little respect. She needed this particular person to stay on her staff, even if for no other reason than to call her out when necessary, instead of allowing them to be driven away by the environment.

"Admiral?"

She took a breath. "It seems I need to adjust my expectations as regards my staff."

"And, perhaps, yourself. Your lapses during this conversation, in fact, are telling." He leaned forward. "You need a vacation, Cornwell. Must I order you to take one?"

"Sir —"

"Apparently I do."

"No!" she barked, realizing as it came out that it had been too quick, too sharp, and far too insubordinate. "I'm sorry. You're correct, sir. I'll request some personal time, starting as soon as we finish reviewing the last of the alternative drive proposals. There are only one or two left."

"You will leave," he informed her, "in no more than a week. You will not return for at least two. Have you any relatives or friends here in the Earth system?" They were currently at the newly-built Utopia Planitia shipyards on Mars; it would take no time at all to get back to her home planet to visit the friends and family she had there.

Except that she couldn't name a single person there anymore.

"Not anymore," she finally admitted as the answer to his question, wincing internally. When had Starfleet become a means of escape as opposed to a way to focus and improve herself?

"Then perhaps you might consider a trip somewhere you've never been. Leisure travel can be a most educational and agreeable experience. Two weeks is a minimum, Admiral. You have nearly six accrued. Feel free to use them. Dismissed."

In the corridor, she leaned against a wall with one hand as she started to chuckle. She'd just been ordered to take a vacation. By a _Vulcan_. The chuckling got harder, becoming true laughter, although she couldn't have sworn it wasn't bordering on hysteria. That, of course, was just one more of the long list of indicators that pointed to the inevitable conclusion, the one she'd been the last one to see. She needed the break.

But, if not Earth, then where would she go? Realizing that she was actually needed to research that sobered her. No wonder she'd lost perspective. She'd allowed her work to become everything she had. Maybe she had an acquaintance she could look up. Surely, at least, there would still be at least a couple of those.

Well, at least one, anyway.

"Ensign Owosekun," she said to her aide as she came into the reception area. "How's your workload this morning?"

"Same as always, Admiral." The younger woman, who was only a year out of the Academy, looked up. "Quite busy. You have appointments beginning an hour prior to lunch and lasting until late afternoon."

"Well, carve out ten minutes in there somewhere before I finish my last meeting." She paused. "Use them to get me the latest update on the _Buran_."

* * *

For what must have been the dozenth time, Katrina told herself this was ridiculous. She was an emotionally mature adult, nearing the pinnacle of a decorated military career. Shouldn't she be past the point of adolescent crushes, giddiness and the general silliness that so often was associated with human courtship rituals?

Not that this was a courtship, of course.

Still, being out of uniform felt different in more ways than she'd anticipated. There was a small, secured case in her travel bag that contained an insignia, ID badge and replicator codes for uniforms if she needed them. But it had fallen to the bottom of the bag already as she'd packed and unpacked various other items; just like, it seemed, some of her other inhibitions.

At least she'd addressed any lingering worries that her career might be all of her that was left. Becoming a different person, at least on some levels, had been a surprisingly refreshing and liberating experience. Terral had been right: she'd needed to get away from Starfleet.

Which didn't explain, she tried to tell herself, what she was doing waiting in the Starfleet lounge at Starbase Eighty-Eight. This didn't exactly qualify as getting away from the fleet.

The chatter in the area abruptly rose in volume, bringing her out of her musings, and Katrina pushed to her feet to get a better view out the transparent aluminum windows. Yes, that was the _Buran_ out there; she'd just finished docking. Right now, they'd be shutting her down, connecting her systems with the base, and finishing the other thousands of tasks that had to be done to put her at station keeping.

He, of course, would no doubt be one of the last ones off. She still had time to leave, if she did it now.

Katrina stayed and waited.

She spent the time people-watching, making guesses about the various relationships based on behavioral observations. It was a different way of anchoring herself, of reminding herself that the person she'd left behind wasn't entirely gone and wasn't entirely negative, and it steadied her nerves more than she'd expected.

When Gabriel finally appeared, he wasn't carrying the ditty bag that crewers usually brought whenever they meant to spend a night off-ship. Just inside the lounge door, he stopped and spoke into the comm panel, wiping his face while he did. While his expression was likely unreadable to most, she could clearly see the exhaustion and disgust.

She stood slowly, staying where she was in the partially-shadowed corner of the lounge where she'd been sitting. If he still had things going on, this really wasn't a good idea. But when he went still, spine stiffening, she knew it was too late to slip away after all.

He turned, dropping his hand from the console, and stared at her for a long moment. "Admiral." The word carried a whole world of meaning.

Allowing herself a single breath, she walked up to face him. "Captain."

His eyes flickered over her. "You're out of uniform."

"Starfleet generally discourages officers on leave from wearing their uniforms."

He snorted softly. "Tell that to the folks in every bar on this station right now."

"Short excursions are excepted, of course, provided the officers in question remember their conduct must never dishonor the uniform."

"I see." He looked her over again, taking his time with the second perusal. "I take it this isn't an official visit or inspection, then."

"No," she said quietly.

"Then why are you here?"

"I don't know." Honesty was the only answer she had left.

He tilted his head, and a smile began playing around his mouth. "Maybe the reason you're not wearing your uniform is because you're planning to dishonor it. Is that it?"

Katrina drew herself up. Vacation or not, some lines weren't meant to be crossed.

"Relax, Kat. I know you wouldn't." The smile broadened, finding its way all the way to his eyes. "But why didn't you tell me you were coming out to meet us?

"It was…" she trailed off, not sure how to explain. She couldn't claim coincidence, not after having had Owosekun chase down the _Buran_ 's exact itinerary. "I wasn't sure how you'd take it."

"How I would take it? It's always good to see a friend, especially after so long." Was there a wistful tone in the way he said the word _friend?_ She must be imagining it. "How long are you out here?"

"I have three weeks of leave left."

"We'll only be in port for three days."

"I know. When you ship back out, I'm going on to Tumboldt V." The resort planet was renowned throughout the sector, and she had reservations at a spa that was supposed to be the absolute best. "This really was just on the way."

"So our paths crossed accidentally."

She couldn't quite manage to hold his gaze. "No. I could've gotten a direct transport."

"Or," he countered, "you could have commed ahead to tell me you'd be here, so I'd have had a chance to request some of my own personal time." The smile took on a faint edge of sarcasm. "But that would've given up too much control, wouldn't it?"

Now she was the one who stiffened.

" _Relax_ , Kat," he repeated, giving the word more emphasis. "That was a joke. I get it, and damn, but it's good to see you." He paused, looking her over one more time, and raised a hand as if to touch her although he didn't complete the gesture. "I'm going off duty as soon as I drop the last report by fleet offices. Won't be more than an hour. Would you…" he trailed off, looking almost shy. "There's this little dinner place I found here, a while back. Vulcan-Andorian fusion, if you can believe it. And it works. Care to give it a try?"

"Yes," she answered, realizing his smile had found its way onto her face. "I think I would."

* * *

On those rare occasions when she'd given more than a fleeting thought to her history with Gabriel Lorca, she'd remembered it fondly enough, but never without sharp edges around the borders. Tonight, though, it was easy to forget that and let herself get caught up in the nostalgia. She had to consciously remind herself not to lose perspective to the point of crossing into rose-colored misconceptions.

He certainly wasn't making it particularly easy to stick to that resolve. The hole-in-the-wall style place on one of the base's lower decks, well outside the official Starfleet sections, did indeed have some of the best food she'd ever tasted, and Gabriel himself was at his charming best, asking her about her work and offering several amusing anecdotes of his own.

She'd seen in a report, while on her way out, that there'd been a recent decline in transfers on and off the _Buran_ , suggesting that its crew complement had finally settled into psychological equilibrium. Performance tended to improve once that happened, meaning that his ship was likely about to launch into a new, exciting phase of its operation.

"What?" he asked, and she realized he hadn't spoken for nearly a minute.

She blinked several times to bring herself back to the moment. "It's good to see you so happy."

"Psychoanalyzing again, Doc?"

"No," she replied. "Just observing. As a friend. Or are you trying to tell me you're not happy?"

"I'd be a lot happier if we didn't have to go into battle so much, but you're right. I'm not exactly unhappy. More like satisfied, I guess, 'cause we're doing good. And that's a word I never thought would come out of my mouth."

Before she remembered to check the impulse, she'd reached across the table toward his hand. Her fingers tingled when he took it, and she switched from Standard to English. "Is it really so bad that it has?"

"What about you?" he asked, maintaining the language switch. "You said you're just observing. Well, so am I, and here are my observations. You've lost so much weight your cheekbones are standing out, and those look like fading circles under your eyes."

Katrina dropped her gaze, but not her hand. "That's why I'm on vacation."

"But are you happy?"

It irritated her that she actually had to think about her answer. "I'm not unhappy."

Now the silence that fell between them was awkward, and she wracked her brain for a neutral topic that could be used to re-establish their rapport. When his hand squeezed slightly, she realized he was doing the same thing. He called for the bill and paid it with a handful of unfamiliar coins.

"Orion zimlyns," he said, giving her one to look over. "Sometimes it helps to keep a little hard currency on hand. Come on. Let's go back to the ship, and I'll show you some of the new things we've been working on."

She'd been on the _Buran_ before, of course, as well as several of the other _Cardenas_ -class ships, but he had a way of explaining things that made them seem fresh and interesting. His ship was obviously important to him, in all the best ways, and it showed.

They finished in one of the science labs, a smaller one that, on most ships, was primarily used for prep work. Gabriel, it seemed, had turned this one into a place where he could indulge in his private tinkering habit. He opened a cabinet and took out two glasses. "Nightcap?"

"Only if it's single malt."

His answer was a chuckle and a bottle of Macallan. "This work?"

"Sure does." She accepted two fingers, taking a moment to enjoy the aroma before sipping. "And it's perfect. Thank you."

"I'm glad." He clinked his glass against hers before taking the first drink, watching her over the rim. There was an intensity in that look, a mixture of concern and curiosity and a million other things that were too much to think about right now.

She found herself turning away, pacing out to the edges of the lab so she could look over the various ersatz experiments. "Hand weapons? I thought you wanted a better way to fly."

There was the barest brush of a hand at the small of her back as he brought the bottle over and topped up her drink. "Technology in general. No point in being the fastest out there if anyone else can come along and just take everything from you."

"That's…" she trailed off. "A bit of a change."

"Not really." He waved a monitor on. "More of an integration. Propulsion and defense have different sources. There has to be a way to marry the two, so that both are stronger. My engineers tell me I'm crazy, that it'll blow up one or the other, but I'm not ready to admit that just yet."

She bit her lip, remembering the schematics her team had been reviewing back at Utopia Planitia. But there was no way to drop a hint about how right he really was, without giving away classified information.

He was watching her again, with serious eyes, and when she met them he seemed to come to a decision. Waving the monitor back off, he put his empty glass down and traced his fingers along her jaw. "Katrina."

It was the tone that undid her, that old half-broken, half-awed tremble. Letting her own empty glass tumble onto the table, she met him halfway. The kiss was slow and sweet, with both of them taking their time. His hands mapped the contours on her face, and she nestled closer.

Something moved across his face when they finished, although she couldn't quite decide what it was as he surveyed the room and then closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against hers. "I can't do this here. Not surrounded by all this. Not when it's you."

"Okay," she said, giving up and giving in to the eerily normal mood this night had brought. "Then we won't."


	8. Chapter 8

_Star Trek_ and _Star Trek: Discovery_ are the registered trademarks and copyrighted property of CBS Corporation and CBS Television Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for this item, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

 **Mind Over Matter  
** _Chapter Eight_

* * *

 _Something had changed._

 _Katrina shook her head, castigating herself. Of course something had changed: Kol had tired of her. As far as she could tell, it had been three days since he'd taunted her by describing the mind-sifter. She wondered if he realized that the taunt's effects were lessened by the amount of time that he was allowing to elapse._

 _Unfortunately, the effects of her starvation were getting worse. She hadn_ _'t been fed since the day of her bath, and at this point was no longer able to deny what was happening to her body. The restlessness and irritability were almost gone, replaced by a consuming, bone-deep apathy that should have scared her. She'd become almost as sensitive to light as Gabriel was, and waking up from her ever-more-frequent sleep was pure agony. Exercise wasn't possible anymore; just moving took an effort._

 _Still, she forced herself to keep changing positions and reviewing the mental catalog of information she_ _'d take into her post-rescue debriefing. Mind over matter. They were going to have to force her to give up._

 _Though she was definitely going to have plenty to say about the amount of time it was taking Starfleet to get her out here. She refused to consider the possibility that this was going to end any other way._

 _But now, though, the routine was different. She dragged her train of thought back to that. There_ _'d been some abrupt shifts in the engine noise over the past several hours; perhaps they had even started a full day ago, but her time sense was becoming distorted again. She'd heard pounding feet in the corridors outside and had even caught the occasional recognizable word._

 _Including_ Tu'sov _, which she_ _'d figured out was the Klingon version of the_ Discovery _'s name._

 _It was, she decided, about damn time._

 _Yet the ship still hadn_ _'t gone into actual combat; the position shifts were frequent, but smooth. And while she'd heard the sounds of hurry, she hadn't heard the panicked cries or explosions that might be expected with combat. Whatever was going on, it wasn't yet an actual encounter with Starfleet._

 _Perhaps the_ Discovery _simply had been sighted again. Sooner or later, she_ _'d known, the ship would end up staying just a hair too long following one of its hit-and-fade responses, and thus would be identified. Given the curses that she heard alongside the ship's name, whatever had happened hadn't gone in the Klingons' favor. But try as she might, she couldn't figure out any further details._

 _Regardless, she hoped it meant that she wouldn_ _'t be here much longer._

 _She laughed soundlessly at that thought._

 _She wouldn_ _'t be here much longer anyway. The only question now was how she would leave. It had better, she decided, be under her own power, and under the protection of a Starfleet weapon. Preferably, said weapon would be in her hand, but she'd accept it if it were in another officer's hand._

 _That, though, would be the only acceptable compromise._

* * *

They were both on leave, and in civilian clothes neither were likely to be recognized by anyone outside Starfleet. But still, discretion was important; despite them not being in the same chain of command, the rank difference was a problem. So, by unspoken agreement, after an initial interlude in his quarters, he packed a bag and they moved to her hotel room for the remainder of their time.

It only added to the sense of unreality that had settled over this visit, particularly given that they stuck to civilian activities as well as clothing. Katrina found herself wondering, more than once, if this was how things might have gone if they hadn't been 'Fleet.

Of course, if they hadn't been 'Fleet, they likely never would have met in the first place.

Occasionally, something reminded her of their real identities and history, like the time he teased her by "accidentally" knocking sensors offline while she flew their rented runabout back from a trip to the planet's surface, or the time she tensed after overhearing an unusually-realistic rendition of weapons fire on an entertainment screen. But for the most part, they managed to ignore it.

On their final morning together, though, she couldn't keep pretending, and he woke up to find her skimming mission reports, reviewing summaries so she wouldn't be too far behind upon her return to duty. There was tension around his eyes when he got up. "Anything I'm gonna hear about?"

"I hope not," she answered, closing the reports down with a sigh. Intelligence was reporting signs of a new, and potentially potent, religious movement among the Klingons. There was no actual trouble yet, but the situation warranted monitoring.

Taking the padd out of her hands, he laid it on the desk and turned her chair around so that he was standing in front of her. "Would you tell me if there were?"

"Gabriel," she said, mildly exasperated. He knew better than that.

In response, he leaned down for a kiss, and they both moved on as if the exchange hadn't happened. They lingered in her room that morning, having breakfast delivered and simply spending time with each other.

When she looked at herself in the mirror after showering, the pallor in her skin was almost gone and she noted she'd gained at least a kilo. He, too, was more relaxed; when she ran her hands across his shoulders and back, the muscles were no longer coiled tight as springs.

He held her close for a long time before leaving.

When she returned to duty, it was a chore to remember not to push her staff, or herself, quite as hard as she had before. The growing instability among the Klingons meant Command wanted the new propulsion technologies sooner rather than later, and she eventually found herself spending nearly all her time negotiating between scientists and soldiers. It was exhausting, often keeping her from getting back to her apartment until so late there was no time to do anything other than shuck her uniform and fall straight into bed.

But the few minutes she occasionally carved out to exchange written messages with Gabriel were sacrosanct, as far as she was concerned. Despite being similarly busy, he made the same effort, and it became something of a lifeline in a world that had slowly started going mad.

Katrina only found out about her promotion to Vice Admiral when the replicator delivered a new insignia one morning. Bemused, she put it on and reported to Terral's office. "Is there something I should know about?"

The steepled fingers were a familiar gesture by now, but the quirked eyebrow was new. "I assume you have not yet reviewed this morning's news feeds."

"No."

"There has been an attack."

Her breath caught. "The Klingons?"

"Yes. Details are still coming in, but it happened in a binary star system near Gamma Hydra." His demeanor grew grave. "There have been heavy losses, Admiral. At least six Starfleet ships are known to have been destroyed so far, and I suspect the list will grow."

She reached back, groping for a chair, and sat down heavily. "What happened?"

"As I said, the information is still incomplete. Indeed, some of it is even contradictory. However, it appears there may have been a mutiny within our fleet. Starfleet," he continued, and now his tone of voice echoed his expression, "powered its weapons first."

"But we don't…" she trailed off, her voice failing her. "A mutiny? In _Starfleet?_ "

"The officer in question has been arrested and will likely face a general court-martial. However, the damage is done. Independent media is corroborating the general public opinion that Starfleet, and not the Klingons, has become too aggressive. We are facing a significant public relations problem in addition to needing enhanced defensive capability."

That was when she noticed that he, too, had a new rank insignia. Her hand drifted up to touch her own, a horrible realization dawning in her mind.

"Yes," he told her. "You're correct. Our task force is being relocated to Starbase Forty-Six, where we will be responsible for deploying new propulsion technologies. Starfleet has declared this project is now a top priority."

This was all happening so fast. "None of the science teams have even started work on prototypes yet."

"Then doing so will be your first task. Based on your analyses, I believe the work being done by Straal and Stamets is likely your most promising option. Perhaps you could begin your focus there." Terral paused. "You also need to consider your staff. We are due to relocate within the week, Admiral Cornwell."

It was a dismissal, and she numbly headed toward her offices. Owosekun met her as soon as she got through the door. "The _Buran_ wasn't there, ma'am. She was on patrol near Ophiucus III and didn't get there until after the battle."

She allowed herself a single breath of relief. "Thank you, Joann. Pull together the staff immediately. There are more new developments. We're officially going to war."

* * *

She didn't lose her composure when Owosekun hesitated just inside her office, visibly shaking with the news she carried on a padd. She didn't lose her composure when she scanned the words, or accessed the official reports detailing the _Buran_ 's destruction. She didn't lose her composure when she took her emergency leave request to Admiral Terral, or on the transport, or even when she checked in at HQ, despite the surprise of being back on Earth less than a month after relocating.

But when she first stepped into the patients' day room and saw him, utterly still and staring into space, Katrina had to step back out again and steady herself against a wall. It didn't matter that she'd already known about the dark glasses, the cane, the livid scars. Actual sight was too much of a shock, and she had to pull herself back together before going on.

Her voice was an unsteady whisper when she finally stepped back into the doorway. "Gabriel."

He stood up and felt his way over, stopping about a meter in front of her. "Your sensor signature isn't familiar."

"It's me," she said, voice still shaking. "Katrina."

"Oh. Well, no wonder. Computer, store and label profile in the ocular enhancers: Admiral Katrina Cornwell. What are you doing here? I thought things were still busy out on the frontier." His tone was matter-of-fact, expression still bland to the point of blankness. "Or is the war over already?"

"It's still there," she said. "So I can't stay. But I had to — I got here as soon as I could."

"That's right. You sent me a message, didn't you? I'm sorry. I guess I forgot."

This wasn't him. This couldn't possibly be Gabriel Lorca. "How are you?" she managed.

"Getting better, I suppose." The tone was still flat, and his expression hadn't changed. "I asked to be discharged yesterday, but nobody agreed."

"Without getting your eyes fixed?"

"That would take too long."

"Too long for what?"

He started feeling his way back toward the chair he'd been sitting in before. "Doesn't matter."

"Hey." For some reason, the alarm bells ringing in her head steadied her. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Don't even think about trying that with me."

This time, his only answer was a shrug, and her hand hit a table before she consciously realized it was moving. "Damn it, Gabriel, what the hell is all this? You won't let them replace your eyes, you're refusing to cooperate with counseling, and now you're asking to be let out? No one's going to sign off on that!"

A long moment passed before he finally turned toward her. His voice was still perfectly even. "How do you know so much about my treatments?"

"I read your medical reports."

"Who gave you access to those?"

"Professional privilege. Actually, when I sent the request, Dr. Boyce asked for my opinion, since I've known you so much longer than he has."

"What right did he have to do that?" The words could have been angry, but his tone still wasn't, and his expression was still the absolute same. _Completely flat affect_ , she realized suddenly. She'd seen it before, but never on him.

"Boyce," she replied, "is out of ideas what to do with you. Hell, nobody seems to be able to figure out what you want. It obviously doesn't appear to be getting better."

Her baiting tone seemed to work for an instant: his hands twitched, and one of them clenched briefly into a fist. But then the muscles relaxed into the same nothingness they'd had before. "Nobody understands what I want. So it doesn't really matter."

"I wouldn't be here if that were true."

"Oh. So you're here as another try at counseling me."

"You know better than that," she shot back, not hiding her anger or irritation. "We went on record with the personal relationship, back at Canopus."

"Canopus? Oh, the M-1 Project." His tone was almost conversational. "But that was years ago. Why are you here now, then? Surely you didn't come all the way back here just to see me."

"Would it be so terrible if I had?"

"It wouldn't seem appropriate."

" _Appropriate?_ Don't you remember anything?"

"Of course I do," he answered, and finally, _finally_ , she heard an undertone of heat in his words. Despite her turmoil, Katrina cheered inwardly. If she could get him to argue with her, it might be the break everyone needed. "But it just doesn't seem like you now."

"And it doesn't seem like you not to go down with your ship!" As soon as the words were out, she damned herself. "I'm sorry. That was awful of me."

"But you were right." The flat affect was returning, and he turned away again. "It's all over."

"It doesn't have to be."

"Don't lie to me, Katrina. They're not going to give me another command. The only thing left is flying a desk for the rest of my career, or maybe retirement. I have my time in, so it wouldn't look like a washout."

She bit her lip so hard it bled. "That's not necessarily true."

"I said, don't lie to me."

"I'm not. There could be another command, if you wanted it enough. I…." She trailed off. "You were happy on the _Buran_ , so I never brought it up. But —"

"But what?" He turned back toward her, and the flat affect was completely gone now. "What are you saying?"

What _was_ she saying? No one would ever agree to put him under her command.

But she _would_ be lying, if she claimed she'd never thought he wouldn't be a good match for the position, and the team-based command approach meant it wasn't completely up to her. He'd still have to work for it, to earn it on his own without her influence, and that fact right there could make the argument that they could be impartial.

"It's experimental," she began, "and we've only been cleared to build two ships. They've been named _Glenn_ and _Discovery_."

* * *

 _It wasn't hard to justify her decision to tell him about the opportunity. Gabriel was exactly the kind of captain they needed for the_ Crossfield _project: the kind who could understand that the end sometimes needed to justify the means without losing track of Starfleet_ _'s dual charter; the kind who could inspire fierce loyalty from many different types of officers; and ultimately, the kind who could think outside the box on a regular basis._

 _His continuing refusal to get his eyes repaired was bothersome, though, and hinted at an instability that could prove disastrous. Indeed, Katrina had been about to commit that very concern to writing, knowing that it could cost him the chance at another command after all, despite his obvious willingness to work for it. That was when a transfer application landed on her desk: Joann Owosekun was interested in the operations position on one of the two new ships._

 _It was a Godsend, and she wasted no time recommending the newly promoted lieutenant for the_ Discovery _'s crew. Between having her on Gabriel's bridge, and the fact that Alekia Kurigawa had been named as captain of the_ Glenn _, she felt confident she_ _'d be able to handle any personnel problems that might arise, without the need to make anything too formal._

 _Until the general orders were issued, giving them both far more discretion than either she or Terral had been comfortable with. Unfortunately, they were the only two who objected, and thus their concerns went un-addressed._

 _Katrina had hoped and prayed it would never be necessary to even ask Owosekun for a private report; and, indeed, she never even hinted that she might. In the end, it proved unnecessary: Gabriel_ _'s flat refusal to recall Sarek's rescue mission went so far over the line that Terral hadn't even bothered to check with her before ordering a courier ship prepped. In fact, she'd had to ask him to let her go out in his place._

 _Which, of course, had led to her ending up captured and being brought here, locked in psychological warfare with a megalomaniac Klingon._

 _Except that, of course, Kol wasn_ _'t visiting her anymore._

 _Nor were the guards that fed her._

 _Nor was anyone else._

 _She spent her time turning everything over in her head, trying to figure out which of her judgment errors had set her down this path. What hadn_ _'t she seen, and why not? Did she still have blind spots when it came to Gabriel Lorca, and, if so, what was she going to do about them?_

 _Would she even have the chance to do so?_

 _Mind over matter, she chanted to herself under her breath. Don_ _'t think that way. The chance would come. This would end. She'd figure everything out and see Gabriel remanded for treatment, forcibly if necessary. They'd end the war, preferably sooner as opposed to later, and definitely with a Starfleet victory. No other outcome would be acceptable._

 _It was all going to be worth it in the end, and as long as she believed that, she could not, would not, be broken._

 _He didn_ _'t necessarily have to be either. He obviously still had an ability to lead. If he cooperated with treatment — if he could be shown that nothing else was going to work — he might very well end up back on track. She would be delighted if that happened. She'd never wanted any less than the best for either one of them._

 _Katrina had her head down, resting it on the table-like piece of furniture in the middle of the chamber. The bath she_ _'d been given was a distant memory, although she figured she would be even worse off had it not happened at all. Still, it was one of the few recollections she could hang on to with any clarity anymore, so she did._

 _Then the door opened, and another Klingon came in._

 _She_ _'d seen this one in the corridors, but only for the briefest of moments and thus had only gotten quick glimpses. Still, that had been enough to realize this particular one was different. In addition to being female, this particular Klingon was lighter-skinned, and carried herself with a quieter demeanor than her fellows. She also didn't wear the painted facial emblems that nearly all of them did._

 _There hadn_ _'t been any chance to figure out exactly what this Klingon's function was, though, and at the time Katrina had simply catalogued and memorized the differences, to be brought up when she was debriefed._

 _But now, the question of function was becoming more than academic. The female Klingon brought a rack into the chamber. Various implements dangled from it, and while their counterparts from Earth history were different, the designs were similar enough to make the purpose perfectly clear._

 _Was this their threatened mind-sifter, then?_

 _Somehow, she_ _'d gotten an impression that Kol had been talking about technology instead of technique._

 _It was a tremendous effort to push to her feet. But whatever was about to happen, Katrina would meet it standing up._

 _The Klingon removed one of the hanging torture instruments and came around to face her, holding it up between them to allow for a thorough inspection. It was old, and rusted from apparent non-use. So, it likely wasn_ _'t the mind-sifter._

 _Kol simply had decided to let this particular person have some fun with her first._

 _Kol, she decided, would be disappointed. This was merely another exercise in convincing herself that she was stronger than the circumstances around her. Another opportunity to prove that her mind was the most powerful weapon she possessed, more powerful than anything made of flesh or matter._

 _The Klingon peered at her, assessing her stance, seemingly even interested in her expression, as the silence stretched even longer between them. There was intelligence in that look, and curiosity, but it didn_ _'t change the reality that things were about to become far, far worse than they had been._

 _When she finally spoke, it was a single word._

" _Scream."_


End file.
